


A Day Less Ordinary

by JoJo



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Early Work, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/pseuds/JoJo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, in a world with no Gunther, the day started out with drizzle and ended with Starsky on life support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story appeared on the [Starky and Hutch Gen Fiction Archive](http://starskyhutcharchive.com/stories.php?zinet=net&genre=gen) in 2007, although I had actually first sent it out into the ether in 2005, never seen it appear and assumed it hadn't been picked up or just 'got lost' (being not very bright). At the time I was quite relieved, and went on to use elements of what I thought was an unpublished draft in several later stories (Dream Sequence and Too Tired to be Dead, both post-Sweet Revenge stories and now also posted here).
> 
> Anyhow, this is a total, self-indulgent hurt/comfort fest, featuring a girlfriend each for the boys and featuring my take on Starsky's mother and brother (which I may have recreated elsewhere). I've put off re-reading it and archiving it for ages. Because this is what fic looks like when you don't have a beta on board saying 'whoa! stop that right there!'
> 
> Furthermore it's written (unthinkingly I might add *cringe*) as if the show were set in 2005, not 1976...

A day like any other, so it would seem, or maybe better than any other.

Warm, fuggy Bay City weather, just the first light sprinklings of a drizzle at 8am. Hutch woke up with a tune running round his head. Feeling strong and energized he sweated it out in the gym first thing and got to work smothered in good health, his water bottle poking out of his pocket, blond hair clumped from the toweling he gave it in the locker-room. Starsky took a "scenic" route and arrived late at Metro with one doughnut in his mouth like a dog with a bone and a crumpled bag with two more inside tucked under his arm. Captain Dobey, immune to their good spirits, prowled his office grumpy with indigestion and pressure from Deputy McMichaels. A pile of reports that needed doing three days ago sat on the desk between them and there was the usual, slow-burning chaos in the corridor and squadroom. Just a regular day.

"Morning, freak," Starsky offered cheerfully, after dropping the doughnut out of his mouth on to the desk where it landed plumb on a memo from Internal Affairs.

"I may be a freak, but you're going to die, Starsk," Hutch responded, cutting but good-natured, reaching across and poking the doughnut with the end of a pen. "Eat something sensible will you?"

They were on good form and both realized it, running with the feeling. Hutch got them both coffee, his partner did some theatrical shuffling of papers, they descended into a short game of paper-ball soccer before Dobey growled at them, and only then was there a serious attempt to tackle the reports, initiated by Hutch who was always more conscientious. Starsky got up from his desk often, wired and hyper, in and out to the candy machine; Hutch was much better able to apply concentration, but got impatient with the crashing pandemonium all around. A ritual disagreement occurred over lunch.

Hutch had just put the phone down from Todd Alberts over at 77th Street and was wondering where Starsky had got to when Dobey appeared in the door frame of his office. Hutch knew the bark in his voice indicated that the trundling pace of the day was about to accelerate.

"Hutchinson, find your partner and get out to La Cuenca." Dobey waved one hand vaguely in the air, apparently in the direction of their destination and seemed to expect mind-reading to be one of Hutch's skills, but Hutch was used to it and struggled obediently into his jacket while Dobey did the briefest of fill-ins. "Dean needs back-up. He's tailing those youths that tried that lame-brained Sunday hold-up on Jackson." He frowned at the scene before him. Starsky's desk was littered with candy-wrappers but no reports. Hutch's looked like a bomb had hit it. There was paper on his chair, under the desk, piled up in precarious mounds. "Do you have anything to give me?" he demanded pointedly.

"Later, Cap." Hutch was already regretting having had the lunch Starsky had eventually fetched. Carb-heavy, it was sitting moodily in the centre of his stomach. Out in the corridor he discovered his partner hitting on the new woman from Human Resources who was patrolling her new beat with her brown wavy hair and a clipboard. Hutch swung by, dumping Starsky's jacket in his arms and propelling him along by the elbow.

"What are you doing? I'm busy!" Starsky protested.

"We have work to do, somewhere to go," Hutch said pleasantly. "And it gets us away from Dobey who just noticed we haven't done much."

Starsky, still being propelled, cast a look over his shoulder as if his superior was coming up behind him. "OK, OK, I got it! Leave me alone. I can walk."

"Well walk fast," Hutch said. "Jay Dean's on the tail of those Jackson Avenue kids. And, Starsk ..."

"Mmm?"

"The HR woman ... so not your type."

They made it through downtown and east to La Cuenca in just over forty, held up a bit by the weather and the lunchtime traffic, Hutch in contact with Officer Dean all the way. They left the Torino up on the highway and went down to meet Dean at the head of the canal basin, clattering after him through the rain into the maze of dried-up waterways and abandoned boats and freight. Somehow he had got the squadcar down the ramp and it was parked at the head of the basin. Everything smelt of sewage. "Where's Laney?" Starsky asked of Dean's partner.

"She's trying to talk to their uncle in Port Alta," Dean had replied and Starsky sent a questioning look Hutch's way. Did uniforms never follow the rulebook anymore? What was the point of having a freelance partner? No wonder Dean needed backup.

The two youths from the hold-up on Jackson Avenue were hunkered down by now. Dean had tailed them right back from downtown, and they all saw them pop up in a mess of rusty ironworks that maybe used to be part of a lock. They were just kids fizzing out of control. On a rampage. Getting more confident, more reckless. Steaming trains, mugging tourists, now armed robbery. Needed to be brought in before something went badly wrong and someone got hurt. They were both teenagers, young latinos. One of them was hooded and desperate to be away and the other wanted to confront them. Dean confirmed that he was sure the hoodie was not carrying a gun; he did not know about the other one with the crazy eyes. Hutch was just wondering what lunacy or narcotic inspired these two to want to square up to three armed cops. Perhaps it was just that they felt at home here and they saw the cops slithering and stumbling their way through the slimy alleyways between the metal.

The three of them all had the measure of what they were up against. Kids. Not sophisticated, but often unpredictable. Had to be real careful though. Juveniles were trouble in so many ways. Treat them with kid gloves or someone, somewhere will be screaming. These ones hated cops, that much was evident.

"Take it easy, huh?" Hutch remembered saying evenly to his two colleagues. "Maybe we can talk them in." He was the one with the facility in Spanish. He was the one taking the lead and he already knew the other two were deferring to him. You're a natural born leader, Hutch, Starsky had said once, and he was being serious. It had been Dean's tail but now it was Hutch's call. The sputtering rain was in his eyes while he was trying to catch up with Dean, who seemed a bit over-excited. He was aware that Starsky was very close behind him, could feel the tension of his concentration. The familiar proximity of his partner made Hutch feel easy. They all had their weapons under wraps. The kids had headed into a dead end in this labyrinth they seemed to know so well. Their faces loomed out of the misty atmosphere, so young, so angry. Nothing they hated more than white cops.

Then the day ceased, in a moment, to be ordinary. Approaching Dean's shoulder, Hutch had held up his hands in a gesture of peace, showing them no gun, and told them in Spanish to take it easy. As the kids wandered, nervous, trapped, a little nearer and then a little nearer still, Hutch remembered the suddenness of Starsky lurching past him, which he was not expecting, barging him accidentally so that he stumbled, his shoes hissing on the wet tarmac. What he heard at the time was indistinct, but it later came back to him clearly, and Jason Dean had heard the same. They both heard Starsky say, not in a sharp way, but calm and controlled, "Jay - a blade ..." Just that. Jay, a blade, and then Jason saw it coming at him at full speed in the hand of this young guy they didn't know. It was enough to make him back out of the way instinctively, by falling over a metal crate, and Hutch felt distracted that the kid in the hood had taken his chance and streaked away to the left all of a sudden, over a huge wall, out of sight. He saw Starsky's momentum filling the gap that Jay had left, and meeting the kid head-on, moving too quickly to control himself. There was a weird thumping sound of fist meeting solar plexus, the sound of a man winded, and then the latino kid's hand came out and back, ready to punch again. Only it was not a fist. It was a thick, flat blade, held easily, like an extension of his arm, already creamily coated with blood. The blade, somehow graceful even in those dreamlike seconds, met the useless human resistance again, this time jamming in even more deeply through layers of clothing and flesh. The winded sound came again, although it was abruptly cut off as the knife reached the furthest point it could slide. The kid was confident enough to twist it as he stabbed it in. Plainly disbelieving, Starsky took a swift glance down, remained frozen for a second and then began to tilt forward, bending double, the kid letting go the knife and backing off, amazed at himself, amazed to see the uniform still lying spreadeagled over the crate, cursing, and the blond cop's face not turned to him but to the dark-haired cop, splashed in rain and realization. He knew he would get away from here; he could move like lightning and already he saw that the cops would be crushed, disorientated - they'd leave him to go. They were not going to pull their pieces. He had known that all along, even if Raul hadn't. He had wanted his knife back - it was Montino's - but too late now. What did the gangs say in Port Alta? .. stab a cop and go to Heaven .... Well, he was on his way. He jumped. He was quick, springs in his heels, following Raul while the cops went into meltdown back there on the concrete.

Starsky sank slowly on to his knees as his strength flowed out of him in a rush - he would have fallen forward except he sensed the hilt sticking out from under his ribs and he so got only one hand to the ground. He tried to turn around, to do the only thing that occurred to him, which was to find his partner to sort it all out.

"Oh that's ... fuck, that's .... Hutch, what is that?"

"Don't touch it!" Hutch said commandingly, having reached him by then, grabbing him under the arms and taking the weight of him, the soles of his shoes sliding on the wet ground. "Oh crap will you look at this, Jay? ... Easy, Starsk, don't do that, let us handle it. Stay quiet."

Starsky obeyed for a second, laying his cheek on the soaked concrete. Hutch's agonized face was close to his. Something was pouring into his lungs, he could feel it. There were dark shapes flapping around his face, shutting out the sodden light. There was ten inches of metal inside him, something heavy outside him, just beyond his grasping fingers. Hutch was holding them away. He was trying to get at it, to pull it out because it was killing him but Hutch's hands, slippery with blood, were stronger.

"Oh god, take it out," he heard a voice groan. His voice.

"Buddy it'd take your guts out with it, leave it will you."

"Hutch, take it out, what is that?"

"It's a blade, buddy, a big one, and I'm not pulling on it."

Starsky heard Jason say, "An ambulance will never get down here, Hutch, we have to take him in the squadcar." He did not catch Hutch's reply as just then a rushing sound cascaded through his brain and then he tuned in again to Jason, on his knees by his side, talking to him. "Hang on in there, Davey, we're gonna get you to a hospital. Leave it alone, man, come on." There was another pair of hands along with Hutch's, grappling with the knife. "Leave it, my man, we'll take care of it. Look, I'm gonna lift you up now, Dave, and it's gonna hurt you. Sorry, man - shit, I'm so sorry." Then Starsky heard Jay get to his feet, felt himself being moved and rain spattering down on to his face and into his mouth and coming out again and he could hear his own voice barking with the pain. His hand was swinging in the air. Everything was wet. Buzzing in his ears and a kind of grey semi-consciousness that seemed to last an age. Then he was on the backseat of the squadcar, half sitting up like he was riding home a regular passenger. Hutch had clambered in there beside him, easing him down so he was lying low across his knees. He used one hand to hold Starsky's head at the back, the other to keep his grasping fingers away from the knife. "Shit I need more hands, Jay," Starsky heard him say. He had left the knife now and was trying to stem the lower bleeding with a t-shirt he had found on the seat. He was breathless, Starsky could hear it even in all the confusion of his mind, desperate not to make things worse. Starsky knew he was moaning, and he was trying not to, trying to hold in the panic and pain, the shocking sensation that half his insides were now hanging out of him, pulled out by that sharp thing. Jeez, yes, the big blade. Was it still in there? He had to get that out, pull it out now, get his fingers to it, if he could. There was a lurch as the black and white's engine roared into life and Jay reversed at speed up the ramp. Starsky rolled towards the floor but felt strong arms steadying him, hauling him back up. _Are you trying to shake it out of me? Let me get it out, I can pull it, just let me pull it for God's sake!_

"Easy, Starsk ... no, no you can't." Hutch's voice, hoarse but controlled. "Leave it, buddy, the hospital will do it."

Now that was funny, really funny. Why leave it so long, a whole car ride? Get it out, get it out now, it's killing me. He had said that last bit out loud.

"Damnit - he won't leave it alone," Hutch said. "What's our ETA, Jay?"

"Ten minutes, maybe, "Dean said through gritted teeth. He was on the radio, his driving arm spinning the wheel, sending the car careering round a corner so it practically lifted two wheels. The brief thought struck Hutch that Starsk would have appreciated that. Normally. "Yeah, Memorial," Jay huffed down the radio, "this is Metropolitan squadcar Five Zero Niner. We are on our way to you with an officer down. We have double stab wounds, chest and abdomen... what's that? Uh, conscious, bleeding profusely from both wounds, weapon still embedded in the ... in the ...Hutch?"

"Right chest."

"In the right chest area. Yes ... got you. Blood type? Blood ty ...? Hutch? .... it's ... it's on record with you, A Positive ... Yuh, we are coming to you on the siren, we will be with you in ten.... Roger - not touch it, we're leaving it alone. Keep him awake. Got it. Keep him awake, Hutch."

"Hear that, buddy?" Hutch leaned down. Starsky's ribs were pressing on his knees and Hutch was hanging on to him, taking the weight - they were a tangle of limbs, soaked in blood. There was no way to get him comfortable, no way to protect him from the journey. "You have to stay with us, only five minutes, Starsk, stay right with me."

It's ten minutes! Don't lie to me! He had not said that out loud. Brain disconnected from mouth. "Oh god, oh god, oh god, Hutch." Was that him? One hand plucked feebly at the knife hilt and found it blocked. Resentment spiralled up inside, incomprehension. The knife was killing him. He just wanted to take it out. And still Hutch was whispering no, no, leave it alone, just stop it. Quieter now. Oh god, Hutch.

"I know, buddy. I hear you. I'm here. Hang in there."

"Tell me how he's doing, Hutch?" Jay said, twisting in the driver's seat.

Blood from waist to neck. There was warm, pulsing blood coming onto Hutch's hand, the one guarding the hilt. He had it splayed in a v-shape, his thumb and index finger either side. His fingers could feel the edges of the wound, wide and open. Somehow he had shifted himself off the seat so his partner could half lay down, and so he could try and press the makeshift pad over the lower wound, and keep Starsky's stubbornly wandering hand off the knife.

"Not good, Jay," Hutch said as if Starsky could not hear him. I hear you, Blintz, you're right. It's not good. Not good at all. Can't breathe. He wanted to say that last out loud but it did not come. Just oh god, Hutch. He remembered the second stab really clearly. Not his heart, the other side. He could feel that now. There were bubbles swelling under his ribs, sucking up the air he needed. Only Hutch was stopping him from crashing down through the floor of the car and disappearing forever.

"Keep with me, Starsk, keep your eyes open and look at me. Look, I'm right here." That was Hutch. Yes, that was his face, his eyes, large and intensely blue, fizzing with fear, willing him on. He was leaning right down, talking, encouraging him, touching his face, keeping the connection, and it helped, it was good to have Hutch there. Only Hutch could save him. It hurt to keep looking at him though. There was a quiet dark place he could go to so easily. Close your eyes, and you'll go there and all this will float away, gone, but then the bubbles came there too. He felt sick, suddenly, violently. He felt Hutch holding him desperately as he retched. The dark pink froth made a weird gargling noise as it came up. Hutch tightened his grip as if to turn back the tide, save Starsky from drowning like this. "Hold on, buddy," he was saying, "hold on for me. Come on, now. You can do it." As Starsky fought and drowned the squadcar bounced and swerved, but everything seemed very quiet, he could not hear the engine noise all of a sudden, or the siren, the hissing of the tyres on the wet roads or the air rushing in at the open window. Then he took some breaths, free of the choking froth, and all the sounds came back online again and there was just that one patch of warmth, Hutch's hand across his forehead, and everything else was icy cold. Jay was saying, "What, Hutch? What's happening?" Hutch was still talking, distraught, but calm in that low, serene way of his. The familiar voice in his ear. "Only a few minutes, buddy, keep breathing, try and make it easy .... in and out, calm and slow .... that's it, that's nice, you can do it. Breathe with me. Look, I'm doing it. Slow, easy, in ... and out ... Look at me, Starsk. With me. That's it ... terrific ... in ... and out ... keep your eyes open. On me, buddy, on me ... "

_A few minutes! Don't lie to me! I can't do it, it's too hard. Let me go, Hutch._

"I won't let you go." It surprised him when Hutch said that, just as he was beginning to float down again. He had not spoken out loud, he knew it. Was he doing their weird psychic thing again? "I'm not letting you go. Fuck it, Starsky, will you listen to me? Jay's driving like a madman here, there's a whole ER waiting for you, fuck it, Starsky, just keep doing it. Come on. Where are we, Jay? I'm losing him, here." Hutch was angry now, Starsky could hear that break in his voice. That was OK. Sometimes only Hutch's anger could get him to do things.

"One block out, the traffic's letting us coast through -- you got him, Hutch?"

Hutch squinted down to see. Starsky had his face pressed down on the seat, his eyes squeezed shut. Hutch stroked his palm from his forehead down the nearest cheek and saw his eyes come open. "I got him. I got you, Starsk. You're doing great, and hey, I can see the hospital from here. They're waiting for you, stay with me, buddy. Here, look, I got your hand." Hutch had slid his guardian hand away and got hold of Starsky's. Their fingers slid and slithered with one another. Too much blood. It had dripped in large, dark patches on to the car floor. Starsky's face was white like a paper plate. His lips were turning a little blue, a very faint rasping sound was coming out. It was all wrong. It just sounded all wrong. Fuck it. On that last bump the eyes had jumped shut again, the shoulders sagged.

"Starsky? .... He may have stopped breathing, Jay - damnit, I'm losing him. Come on, Starsk, come on, buddy. It's not time to go." The car bumped over a ramp at speed. One inhalation came from Starsky. Inside it felt fleeting, the touch of Hutch's hand, the bubbles, then gone again.

"I see the guys in green," Jay said. "We're here, Hutch." The car slewed to a standstill.

"He's not breathing!" Hutch said as someone wrenched open the door.

"How long?"

"Maybe one or two minutes."

"OK, we got him." Starsky's hand slithered from his. It had stopped raining. Blood on the seat, on the floor, on Hutch's trousers, his shirt. Starsky disappeared, and as Hutch crawled out of the car he heard the clatter of the gurney. Jay was leaning forward over his wheel, breathing deeply. Hutch pressed a hand on his shoulder.

"Jay?"

"You go in, Hutch, I'm right behind you. I'll radio Dobey, do all that stuff. You go help your buddy. And, Hutch .... Say something will you, if you get the chance. He took the fuckin' thing for me."

"Move the car!" someone shouted.

Hutch stumbled towards the already closed doors. Inside it was bedlam. He saw an ER nurse give a shocked look at him and realized he looked like he'd been mauled by a tiger. The blood felt wet against his skin, seeping through the shirt. Such fresh blood. So much of it.

"I'm with the cop who was stabbed," he said.

"Trauma 2, over there," she said, waving at swinging glass doors. "You hurt?"

"No, not my blood."

There were maybe three doctors, if he could recognize doctors, a couple of nurses. Just a glimpse of Starsky's dark hair, slicked back, unusual. They hadn't bagged him yet, so he was breathing, a pulse was beeping. Hutch wandered towards the little jumping green light. A doctor turned, eyes wary behind the shield. There was already blood on his gown.

"Detective Hutchinson," Hutch said, formal, helpful, still calm. "I'm his partner."

"His name?"

"Starsky." Raised brows. "David. Dave." Hutch saw the doctor's face saying to the nearest nurse, we've got one in shock here.

"OK, David, can you hear me? My name's Doctor Swift. Do you know where you are? We're doing our best to help you, you're in Memorial, you have two stab wounds. Your partner's here, you've got to try and stick with it, OK? We're going to try and get this knife out of you now."

Hutch moved into Starsky's eyeline and was startled to find his eyes open, a stunning electric blue under the fierce lights. His chest was moving up and down with a slow, grinding effort. They both heard all the sounds around them, both registered it and each other, the panic and the fear. They always had communicated with their eyes. Ideas, sentences, emotions.

"How's the chest?"

"Still bleeding, wound looks deep, could be a lung. Page the OR will you, Matthew? We have to get this thing out and get him transfused. Jeez, where's this coming from?"

"It's the lower wound, there's a lot of tearing."

"We need this thing out, guys."

"We need to stop the bleeding."

Hutch listened in confusion. To him it all seemed plain. Too much blood had been lost, Starsky was awake and he had to be freaked out and in agony. The ping-pong of conversation yapped about blood pressure, heartrate, what they could see, what they needed to do, who had to do what.

"OK get ready to pack it, quickly. It's coming out now, Dave."

All Hutch could do was try and calm him silently with his eyes, for Starsky's were wide now with fear and anticipation of pain. It seemed there were suddenly about three pairs of hands around the hilt and then Starsky felt like his legs had fallen off. Hutch heard him making a peculiar gurning sound, very deep, trying to keep it in, watched his eyes snap shut, his face go slack, watched the knife clunking heavily into a metal dish . He made a feeble gesture towards it, but one of the doctors, a guy younger than him and vastly confident said,

"Yeah, we know, Detective. We'll hand it straight to forensics -- you need the evidence. You can stay here while he stabilizes. We got him back, he doesn't want to go down just yet. Look, he's here." Starsky's eyes were still open, registering shock, expressing a thousand things as they always did, darting around the trauma room, seeing who was there, what he could see, what he liked and did not like.

"Starsk?" They let him through. "Hey, they got that thing out. You're doing great." Starsky looked panicked. Where the hell had he just been? That was not dark and quiet, that place. It wanted him back. "I'm staying here," he heard Hutch saying, and he saw him standing there, covered in blood, face stretched and flat white. "You keep doing your thing, you hear me?"

"Likes to stick with things, huh, your buddy?" observed one of the doctors. "He doesn't want be out."

"We'll keep him with us if he can do it. How's he handling?"

"First unit's in, we got good movement. Chest wound contained, but I think they're gonna have to work both together up there. Who else is in the OR? Sinclair? Good, get him wound up. I don't want to lose this one, he's asking to stay."

"Is he going to be alright?" Hutch heard himself ask that stupid, useless question, the only one that occurred to him right now. He never even processed the answer. Looking back into triage he could see Jay hanging about. He looked very lost.

"Here," said a female doctor. "Let's go talk out there." There were hand signals to the others and then she ushered Hutch out. "OK, how much of all that did you get?"

"All what?" Hutch said dully, acknowledging Jason Dean's hand on his shoulder.

"Detective, your partner is critically wounded. The weapon has damaged one lung, maybe the other too, we can't see that until he's open. There's major damage at the site of both wounds and he has lost serious amounts of blood. We can only do what we can with this mess. Candidly, it really does not look good. Are his next of kin on the way?"

"I did it," Jay said, his voice coming out of his boots, "I got Dobey to contact his Mom and brother in New York. That's all isn't it, Hutch?"

"Yuh."

"Do you want percentages?" Hutch winced. This woman was something else! Percentages! Clinical! But she had to be clinical, to prep him for the worst.

"Go ahead."

"Looking at his condition right now I would give him only a five to ten per cent chance of surviving surgery." She paused while the despair settled deep into Hutch, then she pressed on. "He's clearly still driving from the brain. He's alert, responding to us, feeling pain, all of which is very surprising given the trauma. If he did survive, and the surgery was as successful as it could be, then we would maybe be looking at the same sort of longer-term survival rate. Ten per cent. It sounds pretty lousy, doesn't it."

"But there's not no chance?"

No encouraging comeback. "His body is in severe shock from the damage and ongoing blood loss, Detective, but to have him breathing at all at this point seems to suggest to me he's fighting every step of the way."

"Yes," said Hutch. "He would do. Can I see him before he goes to the OR?"

"Sure. Take it quietly, we need to keep the rhythm calm."

It was strangely serene in Trauma 2 now. Only one doctor, one nurse, glued to the cardiogram, Starsky labouring under the oxygen mask, the blood swinging gently down the tube. His eyes snapped up to Hutch at once, as soon as Hutch got hold of his hand, clean now but looking bloodless. It did not grip. Hutch saw his eyes travel slowly down his shirt. You're covered in blood. "Yeah, it belongs to you, Starsk, you've been pretty careless with it, to tell you the truth," Hutch answered mechanically. He did not notice the look the nurse gave him. "Good to see your eyes open, buddy. Struggling, huh?" There was no breath for Starsky to speak words, but he fixed Hutch with his eyes and asked him. Level with me, these guys won't.

"OK. So here's the thing, buddy. The surgeon gives you a better than fifty fifty. Good odds, don't you think?" Hutch's voice was tell-tale shaky but he gave him an encouraging smile that it took a superhuman effort to dredge out.

 _Don't lie to me! Hutch, just don't stand there and lie to me._ Those eyes, full of knowledge, bored into him.

"Fuck, OK, you got me. Ten per cent, her best shot. Crap odds. It sucks, Starsk. But hey, listen, you're the longshot kid, right? and they're real impressed you're sticking in there - just keep doing it." He paused a second. "I know it's hard, Starsky, I can see that, buddy, but you gotta keep doing it."

_Ten per cent, huh? Yeah, it felt like that, the second one. That second one is the one that'll get me. Keep talking, Hutch._

"See all this good stuff going in there? Never mind what you left in Jay's car -- this is premium blend. Are you kidding? Half the precinct will be down here donating. Now your Mom's on her way, buddy, Jay had Dobey call her. So you've really got to keep pumping, she's coming a long way. Nicky will be here too. Hey, hey, come back to me .... Whoah, that's it, here you are. That's it, that's my buddy. Just till they bring the nice sleepy juice and fix you up."

I'm really trying, Hutch, but to tell you the truth it's getting too much. Are we cool, though, Hutch, is everything OK?

"It's all fine, buddy." A soothing smile, a small, instinctive caress of his hand. How was Hutch doing this?

Starsky saw weird shadows overhead and his eyes ranged over them, feeling them otherwordly and threatening, even while he knew Hutch was talking him up, trying to keep his attention. He was working very hard. Starsky felt bad for him. It was the scene that was just a fingertip's length away from them the whole time they were out. And it was playing itself now. Starsky had always, always imagined a bullet, just a single one. Never a knife. He knew about bullets, knew how they felt inside, knew their shape and texture, how they moved. He took knives off perps all the time, but he never really looked at them, held them. A huge sigh vibrated through him then and he felt Hutch's hand slip away.

"The OR's ready for you now, Dave. Can you hear me? We're taking you up. Sorry about the banging about, we're having to move fast. This is Doctor Lehman along for the ride here, he's helping the breathing."

Hutch brought up the rear. The Lehman guy really was riding the gurney. He had mobile paddles. They were expecting a crash before they even got to the OR. Hutch could not keep up. Once they reached the corridors outside theater, the doors banged shut and he was left behind. After a minute or two in which he stood in suspended animation in the silence that remained, a nurse came out. She was masked up, but pulled it aside.

"I'll show you where to wait," she said kindly, taking him around a corner and through some doors to an open area with a couple of chairs, a coffee machine and a window to the suddenly darkening world. "If his relatives arrive, they'll be shown up here."

"How long is this going to be?"

She shook her head. "No idea. Long, I guess, there's a lot of work to do. Don't expect to hear much for awhile, but we'll come out and talk to you when we can."

Hutch was pacing when Jay arrived. The knife was with forensics, there was a team down at the canal basin, Dobey was going to come down to Memorial, the squadroom was in shock and everyone was with them, Mrs Starsky and her other son were booked on a flight out of New York leaving anytime now. The information sloshed around Hutch leaving him more weary.

"They told me he's in the OR now. I'm going back to La Cuenca -- I just wanted to check things out."

"Ten percent," Hutch said. "Can you believe it? The chances of him coming out of the OR are a goddamn fucking ten per cent." He passed a shaking hand over his eyes. There was blood pulsing at his temples, his fingers tingled and his chest was tight. "What do you think, Jay, ten per cent as odds, would you take it?"

"What do I think?" said Jay. "I think you need to get a grip, Hutch. Your buddy is going to need you like he's never needed you before, whether he stays or goes, you know what I'm saying? Whether he stays or goes. Come on, man. Believe in him. Believe in him until they come through those doors with that face on them. Right now, Starsky's still pumping." He shrugged. "That's all."

Hutch shook his head. "I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Cool," Jay said. "Keep in touch."

It was half past five. Only about an hour and a half since the knife went in.

The waiting area was quiet and dreamy. Odd, disjointed noises, muffled by walls came seeping along every so often, or staff crossing the corridor in the distance. Once or twice an OR technician would come out of the doors, keeping a low profile, and walk off. Eventually Hutch sat down. The tingling fingers and tight chest would not go away. He knew it was anxiety so he kept trying to take deep breaths. Funny, it was Starsky who could always tell when a full-blown panic attack was approaching. How many times had the guy talked him through it? He searched himself to see if he was hungry, or thirsty, or needed coffee. None of it seemed appropriate. His head was not here. He thought it was probably still back in the canal-basin, the moment he had realized what was happening.

At seven Dobey arrived, smart coat in hand, a layer of sweat on his forehead. He had spoken to Jay but they went over it all again.

"I can't get Dean to go home," Dobey said. "He thinks he needs to find that guy. Forensics couldn't get fingerprints - well, apart from yours and Starsky's."

"He kept trying to take it out," said Hutch absently.

"If you get a chance, Hutch, speak to Dean will you? Persuade him to let go of it, for a while anyway. He's wound up tighter than a drum."

"Yeah, I saw him," said Hutch, thinking that Jay would tell him where to stick it. With a great effort he tried to pull himself together, as that young man had entreated him. "Cap, you go home. I'm going to stay until we know how it went. I'll call you."

"You coping?"

Hutch couldn't help an ironic squawk of a laugh. "It's not me you need to worry about, Cap. It's Starsky, fighting for his life in there."

"Sure, and you look terrible."

"I got all my blood, Cap. It may be misbehaving, but at least it's still there. You go, I'm fine."

"I can stay and talk to Mrs. Starsky," Dobey offered, but Hutch waved him away. He regretted it almost as soon as the wide figure had disappeared and he was left alone again.

After three hours the OR nurse came out, looking a little bug-eyed. "It's going very slowly," she said. That was all. Another surgeon arrived, walking quickly past the blond-haired man who had half got up from his seat and disappearing.

Very slow hours later, maybe around one o'clock, footsteps came up the corridor. Even in the circumstances it seemed very odd to see Starsky's Mom and brother. They were trailing along uncertainly, Mrs. Starsky in jeans and a leopard-print t-shirt slightly in the lead. She caught sight of Hutch and quickened her pace.

Slight, birdlike, with dyed blond hair and David's blue-spectrum eyes, Trisha Starsky dropped the bag she was carrying and opened her arms to Hutch, enveloping him in a hug so warm, so caring that his head span. "Ken, honey, am I glad to see you," she said into his ear. "How are you doing, babe? You look shattered." It was typical, so typical of this woman. As far as she was concerned, Hutch was one of her boys. Tiny, sharp-edged tears sprang into Hutch's eyes. One blink and they were gone. He held her hands, nodding as he could not speak. Over her shoulder he registered Nick Starsky, taller, chewing his bottom lip, holding a bigger bag, dressed in denim.

"Hutch," he said.

Hutch let go Trisha and extended one hand. "Nick. How you doing?"

"OK. How's Davey?"

"Still in surgery. It's been over six hours. What did the Captain tell you?"

"That he was stabbed," said Nick, and he and Hutch tangled glances for a split second. Same dark curly hair, but that was it. David and Nick Starsky, as unalike as they could be. Nick was nervy where David was laidback, angry where David was resigned, suspicious where David was openhearted, afraid of life while David jumped into it. Nick was all the things that David should be, given what had happened to him as a child. There had always been a gulf between him and Hutch. Who knew what it was. Shame, jealousy, personality clash.

"We know you were on a case, and that a young man stabbed him twice," Trisha said. "That it's serious. Life-threatening. That's all."

"Come sit down," Hutch said. "You want coffee?"

"Sure. Coffee. Cigarettes. Whisky," she said.

"I'll get it," Nick said. "Hutch?"

"Thanks. Black, sugared up."

Trisha sat next to him on the foamy plastic orange banquette. She sought his hands again and held them in her lap. "So, the full story," she said. She knew anyway that Hutch needed to tell it to her. She could see in his eyes that he was full to bursting.

"OK. We got called out to back up a uniformed officer, young guy. Jason Dean, Jay Dean."

"Where was his partner?"

"Yes, there should have been four of us. Jay's partner was following another lead on the same case -- they shouldn't have been separated." A long pause. "It wouldn't have made any difference."

"Go on, babe. I'm not Captain Dobey." She squeezed his hand.

"So, we joined Jay on the tail of these two .... kids. They're kind of out on their own, not even in one of the gangs. Jay had followed them to this place -- way east of here -- where there's some dried-up canals. A great place to hide. It was just the usual stuff, but when they were cornered .... We didn't want to go in too hard. Starsky saw the blade coming for Jay, and he warned him. It was all so damn quick .... Jay kinda fell out the way ... and Starsk took the knife." Another long pause. "What the hell were we doing? We brought him here in the squadcar. He was conscious all the time, even talking a little. Really bleeding badly -- you can see." He knew Trisha's eyes had traveled more than once down his blood-soaked clothes.

"Was he in pain?" Trisha asked.

"In distress," Hutch said carefully. "He wanted to pull out the knife." She squeezed his hand again.

"I'm so glad you were with him all the time," she said. "So glad he wasn't hurt out on his own. Thank you, Ken."

"Here," Nick said, handing down two coffees. He stayed standing, staring at the doors into the OR. Then he turned to Hutch. "So Davey took the knife -- for this other guy?"

"I guess. It was kinda instinctive. I don't know what was in his mind. He was trying to protect Jay ... Jay's only a kid. A good cop."

"And the medics say what?"

"That his chances are poor," Hutch said, knowing he had to be honest.

"Did he know that?" asked Trisha.

"I told him -- he wanted to know."

"So he was talking?" said Nick.

"No -- I just knew he wanted to know."

The longest pause. More of a heavy silence. Nick Starsky took a little walk around the waiting area.

"The day he joined up I wondered what this was going to feel like," said Trisha eventually.

"How does it feel, Ma?" asked Nick from his perambulation.

She shrugged. The younger son wandered over and pressed her shoulder. She still held on to Hutch's hands.

It was crawling along to two-fifteen when the theater doors drifted open and a tall man in green, who had evidently just washed his hands, and who still had his mask around his forehead like a bandana, came out to them.

"For David Starsky?" he said, taking in at once the facial resemblance between the woman before him and his patient. "Mrs Starsky? Hello, I'm Doctor Sinclair, one of the surgeons who's been working on your son." He was handsome, efficient and British. "Can we talk?" He seemed to be gesturing Hutch away.

"He is David's family," Trisha said, a trifle haughtily. A honey drip of gratitude soothed Hutch's aching for a second.

"I'm sorry. No offence." Sinclair seemed very, very tired. "Well, David is still with us. It has been a long piece of surgery -- complicated by his severe blood loss. We found much damage to one lung, which we hope we have repaired, and also to several major organs of the abdomen. He is stable for now, in intensive care, but still very critically ill. He has two major problems now -- breathing ... he is on a ventilator at present -- and his heart which has taken some heavy trauma with the shock of losing that amount of blood, so consistently. Also he is at high risk of infection, blood poisoning ... we can't do too much more just now other than monitor him, give pain relief and treat the fever he has developed. He may need more surgery but he needs to get through the next twelve hours."

"Can we see him?" Trisha's voice was hardly more than a dry whisper.

"Very soon. We are maintaining him under sedation -- he is deeply unconscious. A nurse from ICU will come and find you shortly.. Do you have any questions?"

None came to mind except is he going to live?

"Thank you, Doctor Sinclair," Trisha said. "For all you've done. We appreciate it." A flicker of a warm smile crossed his face.

"Things look very bleak," he said. "I have to say that in all honesty. But David has surprised us so far with his tenacity."

You mean bloody-mindedness, thought Hutch.

"The hospital can sort out a bed for you, Mrs Starsky, if you'd like. Not in ICU, but not far away. Would you like me to sort that out?"

"That would be good, thank you."

When he had gone, Trisha leaned for a while on Nick's shoulder while Hutch did the perambulating. Then she said,

"Ken, honey -- you go home, have a shower, wash those clothes. On second thoughts, trash the clothes. We'll be here."

"You'll call me?"

"The minute we have to."

"OK, I'll go, but I'll be back."

In the cab he felt cold to his bones, weak and shivery, and the driver had looked at him very warily at first. The further they got to Venice Place and away from Memorial the more he felt the peculiar sensation that he was leaving part of himself behind. Hutch was desperate now to get his clothes off. As soon as he was in the front door he was peeling off his shirt, and his trousers which were stuck to him. The dried blood was dark and clotted in some places. Everything came off and he took it all straight into the kitchen, found a trash bag and dumped it in. Trisha was right. It was all gone -- shirt, pants, underwear, socks, even the jacket, the expensive Harrington from Paul Smith. All gone, the bag sealed up and put out the back door. Then he went and stood in a hot shower, scrubbing, sluicing, shampooing, but he found he couldn't wash away the feel of the bloody, slippery hand of his partner. Robed up he stood at the counter eating a banana, staring into space. He drank water, loads of it, which swilled, cold, around his stomach and then headed for the couch with the phone.

It was creeping into the next day. Annaliese had a big morning in court tomorrow and Hutch knew that she would still be up, working, sat before her computer in an old t-shirt of Hutch's and her sheepskin slippers her mother sent her at Christmas, surrounded by open books and piles of paper. "Hello?" she answered in a hopeful, low voice, that sexy voice with the tang of Sweden in it.

"Anna, hi, it's me."

"Hey, at last! I've been waiting all night to hear from you. I thought you were going to call earlier?"

"Yeah, I was tied up. Listen, bad news."

"You OK?"

"Me, fine. Starsky's in Memorial -- stab wounds -- it happened this afternoon."

"Oh, Ken." A silence as she gathered her thoughts, tried to say the right thing. "Oh, that's awful, so awful .... Poor David. Is it serious?"

"Very. As bad as it can be. Not much hope, really."

"Oh God." It reminded Hutch of Starsky -- _oh god, oh god, oh god._

"Yeah, well God's looking the other way right now. Anyhow, I thought you should know. I'm at home. His Mom and brother are with him."

"And Clem?"

"What about Clem?"

"Have you called her?"

"Should I?"

"I know they split, Ken, but really .... You know how they were. She would want to know. If things go .... If ....well, you know."

"Most of the reason they split was because of the job," said Hutch tensely. "How's telling her going to help?"

"I didn't say it would help, Hutchinson, but she cares for him," came back Annaliese, every inch the lawyer now. "She should know. Isn't she in UK? Do you want me to call her?"

"Oh shit," Hutch said resignedly. "No, I'll call. I'll do it now, I have to sleep. Listen, sweetheart, I'll see you soon."

"Yes, soon. Listen, Ken, you'll let me know how David is, right? Give him a kiss from me ... or something."

"Sure. 'Night."

Then he was rustling through his agenda looking for Clem's cellphone number. He got through almost at once and a man answered.

"Hi, can I speak to Clementine please? Tell her it's Hutch."

He wondered fiercely who the man was. He sounded foreign and sleepy. It was eleven o'clock in the morning in London. Clem came on, flustered.

"Hutch? What's up?" When Hutch found the words sticking in his throat, she immediately said, "It's David, isn't it? What's happened?"

"I'm sorry to call you, Clem, like this. Starsky's been hurt, today, on a case. He's in a bad way and I thought you should know."

Silence.

"Clem?"

"I'm here, I just .... What does in a bad way mean?" Her voice sounded thick all of a sudden.

"Oh, Christ, I don't know. Critical, they say, survival unlikely." He regretted all the words immediately as he heard her beginning to cry, all those miles away. There was the muffled sound of someone -- the man -- trying to comfort her.

"I'm sorry, Clem. It's crap, I know."

"So what .... What happened?"

"He was stabbed, twice. He's been in surgery for hours, but he's having breathing problems and he lost a lot of blood. He's in Intensive Care. I'm really sorry to call you like this -- what are you doing?"

"No you did right, Hutch. I'm due in class in half an hour -- then we're rehearsing, performance tonight. And Hutch? The guy here -- it's Sergey, my dance partner. We've been talking about tonight. That's all."

"Hey, sweetheart, it's between you and Starsky. You don't need to tell me."

"Yes I do. Things haven't worked out, but maybe they will. You have to let me know what's going on, right? It's late for you, yeah? Well, when you can, call me again, it doesn't matter what time. If I'm in class or on stage I'll leave my phone with someone who can contact me, but I have to know, right away. Do you understand? I'll come back if I have to. Just don't leave me out. OK? OK, Hutch?" She was crying again.

"OK. I'll call when I know something. Break a leg tonight. You and Sergey."

He lay back on the couch, knowing he had to go to bed. He could doze here, but what was the point? The phone would ring wherever he was, he might as well be comfortable.

By three he was in a deep, flat sleep in bed, unmoving. Annaliese the insomniac had stopped working, her glasses were off. She sat at her computer staring at the wall, thinking. In London, Clem turned up at company class red-eyed. She had processed what Hutch said, diagnosed his tone. She felt it was a matter of time only. Just a matter of when the phone would ring. She took her place at the barre and let her training overtake her mind, trying to focus on the shape of her foot as it swung up before her, but her limbs would not her obey her, somehow, that morning, and Maitre Rochaud shouted at her.


	2. Chapter 2

Hutch got four hours. It seemed a lot. When he woke up and realized the phone had not rung all night he felt a frantic surge of urgency to get to ICU.

"Bedhead," said the gay guy in Benjy's Bagels appreciatively when he whirled in. Somehow a Starsky breakfast was all he wanted. "Suits you." He looked keenly at the blond guy's ass as he walked out the door.

"He's a cop," said the manager scoldingly.

"Even better."

"And he's straight."

"So I can dream."

In the ICU family room Nick Starsky had made himself a camp out of several chairs and the contents of his bag. The room was strewn with empty cups and takeaway wrappers. He rolled to his feet as Hutch appeared.

"Nicky, what's going on?"

"He's still here," Nick said. "They've been buzzing around him all night, nervous as hell. No change in his status. My Mom has gone to get some rest -- there's a little room with a bed in it."

"Are we allowed in?"

"If you really want. He's not very entertaining at the moment."

The stare went between them again. Eventually Nick shrugged.

"You know how me and Davey are," he said, defending himself. "The opposite of you guys." Hutch had several times over the last twelve hours recalled Starsky's regular assertion that Hutch was more of a brother to him than Nicky had ever been. "We argued," Nick went on. "About two months ago, you probably know."

"No," said Hutch, surprised.

"I thought you guys talked about everything."

"Not quite. So what did you argue about?"

"Oh, who knows? We both said stuff. I finished it by telling him he'd regret being a cop one day, and that I'd be glad then. Funny, huh?"

"Not really, Nicky."

"No. Not really. We haven't spoken since then." He fussed in his back pocket for a cigarette and then remembered he couldn't have one. "He called me a loser, though. And a jerk." He hung his head. It was a very Nick Starsky pose.

"Well, maybe it'll be OK," said Hutch.

"Are you kidding? You should see the way these guys are making faces around him. They're just waiting for the end, that guy Sinclair more or less said so. My Mom thinks so, too, but she won't say it."

"Listen, I'm going to go in. Go have a cigarette, Nick."

"Yeah, good idea....." He paused. "You know all about our Dad, right?" Hutch did a quick mental inventory of what he knew. Good cop, tough father, drunk, admired and feared in equal measure. "Well," Nick went on, oblivious of what had passed through the blond man's mind, "one of the reasons he gave Davey a bit of a rough ride was that he knew, he could see, that Davey was going to go this way, be one of the good guys. And me maybe not. And he wanted Davey to be one of the good guys, so he was hard on him to make him tough."

Hutch held it in. He motioned an open-handed yes but said nothing. To him, beating your ten-year-old with a leather belt and locking him in a cellar did not equate to a bit of a rough ride. He wondered why it suited Nick to come up with his tortured logic and forget those details. Maybe he had been scared, so he took his father's part while Davey cried in the cellar. So he lied to the police and social care about where Davey and his Mom got their cuts and bruises. Only a year older, but Davey had carried him through it all. Taken all the heat, shouldered all the responsibility, buried all the pain.

"Go have your smoke, Nick. I'll see you later."

"Sure."

The ICU was dark. It was busy, too. There were a handful of nurses, some techie monitoring something, and a young doctor. All moved aside quietly as Hutch came in. He found Starsky in a sickly pool of light, stretched out under the hospital sheets, lost under the technology, more on a shelf than a bed. Fluids going in and out. Arms attached to monitors. A respirator that seemed incredibly hard work for him. An austere machine registering the slightly fast heartbeat. The face obscured by the taped-on mask and thick, ridged tube was damp and colourless.

"Hey, Starsk," Hutch could not help saying. There was nothing to hold. One hand had two lines going in the back, one had an electrode on the middle finger. He stood watching the monitors, the sound and light transfixing him. A nurse was at his shoulder.

"It's a bit shocking on first sight," she said. "I'm Jane Dickens, senior ICU nurse. Are you a family member?"

"No, a friend. I'm his partner."

"Do you want me to tell you what all these things are?" He nodded and she ran through it, technical terms and all, but he was only half listening. "We're a team of four nurses -- we cover a forty-eight hour period between us -- David's our most seriously ill patient at present. He's in a state of very deep sedation."

"The respirator," Hutch said. "It seems like hard work"

"Dr Sinclair may speak to you and Mrs Starsky about that later," said Nurse Dickens. "You can go on talking to him, even though he's so far down -- we encourage it." She went away. Hutch pulled up the chair and sat down gingerly. He glanced at the drip feed of yellowish fluid.

"No beef burritos in there," he said. And then, "We're going to get the kid, Starsk."

Funny, despite what they had said, he had expected Starsky to suddenly open his eyes. He had not bargained on the guy being so very far away.

"Listen, you probably know, your Mom's been here all night. I'll bet she's been talking to you, Nick too. I've spoken to Clem, hope that's alright. I wasn't sure. Anna said I should, and she sends her love. Dobey's been. Jay's been. He's pretty cut up so you'd better come through this. I'm going down to the precinct now -- I want to see how the investigation is going. So, Starsk ... this is important." He leaned right forward, so his breath moved a corkscrew of dark hair. "Don't bail out on me while I'm gone. Just ... don't." The respirator strained and pushed. Not a flicker of eyelash or a tremor of tiny muscle.

"You're going in to work?" Nick Starsky said in open-mouthed disbelief when they passed in the corridor. A halo of smoke still hung about him. The smell of tobacco brought back a sharp longing to Hutch. He thought about asking Nick for a cigarette and hanging about with him in the car park to smoke it. Whenever he and Starsky used cigarettes on undercover cases there was always a rush to be the first to light one. When he got drunk Starsky would get the urge to smoke and smoke for real, until it made him sick. Hutch usually resisted, but just now the link between stress and nicotine jumped all over him.

"I need to see the Captain, do some stuff. We want to get the guy who had the knife."

"Hmm. It's kinda depressing in there isn't it," said Nick, nodding at the elevator which went back up to ICU. "You in the car? Can I have a ride to Davey's?"

Hutch was shocked. "And leave him alone?"

Nick back-tracked. "Yeah, you're right. It would be just like him, stealing away when we're not looking."

No it wouldn't, thought Hutch. It wouldn't be like him at all.

"I'll wait until my Mom comes to, then I'll get a cab," Nick said obediently. "I just can't stand that room, those machines. And I can't talk to him. It seems crazy."

Nicky, you are such a kid, thought Hutch. He shook himself a little. "OK, Nick. I'll see you later, I'll be back. You get on the phone, right away, if you need me."

"Sure, Hutch." Nick yawned ostentatiously. "Go be a good cop."

Hutch wriggled his anger down inside him, Nick's tone was, as often, verging on the sarcastic.

The precinct was only half surprised to see Hutch. An air of gloom and anxiety hung over the squadroom, and when they heard Hutch was in the building a steady procession of people from all over the department came up to see him, find out the real news and offer hopes. Booking clerks, uniforms, secretaries, even the guys from Maintenance. Dobey thought he should just take time off.

Port Alta had swallowed its own. The gangs all knew a cop had been stabbed and that it might be murder one, but even Montino's worst enemies were not going to lead anyone to the teenaged cousins who even now were sweating it out in their uncle's hotel deep in the barrio. You could practically hear the gates clanging shut. Jason Dean had been down there with some of the precinct's latino detectives but it was as closed down as South Central after a riot.

"Jay," said Hutch when he came upon him in the car lot.

"Hutch, am I glad to see you. You haven't called."

"Starsky's still alive."

"How's he doing?"

"Oh, the same. He's on a respirator. What's going on?"

"Not much. They've disappeared, but we'll winkle them out. There's a team on the street in Port Alta and some more down in La Cuenca -- something will turn."

"You need to go home," Hutch offered.

"Oh. Like you?"

"I've had some sleep."

"Yeah, well I was going. You'll call me?"

"You're first on the list, Jay."

Hutch went from the precinct downtown to the offices of Wells, Marsh and Kleinberg. Annaliese was in her sharpest suit, her hair a tight coil. They had coffee over the road from her office. She rested one hand on his upper thigh under the table and they talked of inconsequential things. He was called on his cellphone on the way back home. The Mozartian tinkling set his heart racing painfully. There was an echoing quality to the line. Clem.

"I'm in the wings," she said. "My cue is in about three minutes, can you believe it? I had to speak to you, just to check."

Hutch smiled, in spite of himself, imagining the setting, the buzz of the backstage, the lights out front, the air of tension and Clem in some sharp, slick costume buzzing about with her cell clamped to her ear. He had really wanted Starsk and Clem to work things out, had felt early on that, despite their combative relationship, they were perfect for one another. But she travelled all the time, and he was a cop. They both hated one another's lifestyles, they both wanted the other to be at home for them at the end of the day. They argued all the time, big, passionate rows, but they both made each other laugh hysterically. They both hated cooking, but Clem favoured ethnic food over American. Starsky loved Bay City, she hated it. She feared for his life, he was jealous of her colleagues. He knew nothing about dance, and she thought the whole force was on the take. It was hopeless.

"Get your pointe shoes out there, Clementine, and give them hell."

"What, my shoes, or the punters?"

"Both. He's still with us."

Deep breaths. "OK. I felt like I couldn't move without just checking."

"I'll call you if I have to," Hutch said meaningfully. "Is this the first night?"

"We opened here two days ago -- three more to ... shoot, I have to go."

Shoot. It was Clem's trademark epithet.

"OK. Bye."

"Love you, Hutch." He heard a weird swell of music as the call ended. He pictured the spotlight falling on her shiny black head as she went out there.

He made a stir-fry. He ate it in front of the TV and gave himself indigestion. He read the Tribune and fell asleep.

It was nearly midnight again when he awoke, stiff, his stomach tender. Plenty of water, three glassfuls. A shower, several suspicious looks at the telephone. No messages. No calls. He finally got through to Huggy, shrouded in the screech of the Pits. Huggy had been calling Memorial all day, he said.

"Man it's going to be alright," Huggy said in his singsong, confident way. "They said twelve hours, right? He's made it through twelve hours hasn't he? Don't you start acting like he's already dead, Hutch, I know what you're doing. C'n hear it in your voice. Get down there, pull him through." A pause. "He owes me fifty dollars."

"I hear you, Hug."

At Memorial Nick Starsky was absent. Trisha said he had gone back to Starsky's apartment to sleep. She was tight-lipped, her optimism waning, her eyes smudged by purple, puffy skin. But she kissed Hutch, gave him her big smile. That night, she slept in the little bunkroom one floor up and he sat long hours in the chair by the bed in ICU watching Starsky struggling with the respirator. Early in the morning as he and Trisha drank coffee in the waiting room, Dr Sinclair came along.

"We need to talk," he said.

Hutch, blond hair sticking up with the force of his constant raking, put one arm along Trisha's shoulder, exerting a light pressure. She moved in towards him.

"I think we should take him off the respirator," Sinclair said.

"Good," said Trisha, feeling relief, but the doctor's face remained grave.

"Switch it off?" Hutch said shakily.

"Not in that sense, no. I think he may be able to cope, just about, without it. But he's clearly having trouble with it and I worry about the strain on his system. I would recommend we take him off it this morning."  
"And you think he'll breathe on his own?"

"I believe he will. But I also believe there is a chance he may not be able to sustain it. If we have to put him back on the machine, I feel he may stay on it."

"What do you mean, stay on it?"

"Until we do have to switch it off. Until there is no chance of meaningful recovery. Although of course any such action would have to be at your behest, Mrs Starsky, as next of kin."

"So, wait a minute," Hutch said, getting his head round it. "You think his best chance is to come off it, but if he can't manage, then it means permanent life support."

"Until such time as ...."

"Yes, I got that bit."

"And what will happen if you leave him on the respirator now?" asked Trisha. She had felt Hutch's hand tightening and loosening on her shoulder.

"Well, we can't be sure," Sinclair said. "But some people don't get the ongoing benefit -- there's something about their metabolism that does not respond well over time to assisted breathing. David is one of these -- you can see that it is taking tremendous effort to co-exist with the machine. He's in a tiny minority, in fact. These are the great life-sustainers of intensive medicine, normally."

"He's just cussed," Trisha said. Sinclair almost smiled. She looked along and up at Hutch, her eyebrows raised.

"Oh, it has to be your call," Hutch said.

"No, not just me. I mean it, Ken, you're my boy too and you're David's other half. You know him inside out, you know exactly what he would want."

"He wants off the machine," Hutch said without hesitation. Trisha nodded.

"Of course he does."

"Alright," Sinclair said. "Although you should be aware that it won't necessarily improve his situation. Indeed, it may hasten things negatively."

Hasten things negatively! Hutch had to file that one, for Starsky, later. He was pleased at this thought.

"Are you going to call Nick?" Hutch asked.

Trisha shook her head. "No, Nicky wouldn't know what to do. He already said he wants me to make all the decisions. If you pushed him, you can guess what he would say."

"The opposite of us?"

"For sure, honey. He would just be scared of the leap. He's scared of the machine, but he's more scared of just being out there."

Hutch glanced at Sinclair, so glowing and healthy-looking even in this unflattering place. "Can we be there?" he asked, but Sinclair shook his head.

"I wouldn't recommend it," he said. "There may be some distress, and we will need to stabilize him again quickly. Now you have given your consent we will do it right away and let you know when it's over."

When he had gone, Trisha gave in to her first tears, hot and bitter. It had been the word 'distress'. "I can't stand not being able to help him, Ken. It kills me, my boy lying there so bad and I can't make things better for him."

"Come on, let's go get some air," said Hutch. "We can't help here."

They walked all around the block. It was a bright and warm day, no rain. Even the congested air of downtown seemed sweet compared to the wearying atmosphere inside Memorial. They went and sat in the Square under the campanile, feeling detatched from the dropouts and homeless sunning themselves in a group around the concrete seats. Hutch bought them coffee, juice and doughnuts and Trisha told him how her job was going, how Nicky had moved back in with her although she had not thought it a good idea, and how her sister Rosie was. She also told him she was dating an accountant with a condo on Long Island but neither of her sons knew about it.

"What about you, Ken?" It was a relief to talk about something else. "Still with your lawyer lady?"

"I am. We're not going anywhere, but it's still worth it, I guess."

"Ah. Not the marrying kind?"

"Me or her?"

She just looked at him.

"No, she's not, definitely not," Hutch said, embarrassed by the penetrating look, seeing Starsky in those eyes saying wordlessly, what's the point, Hutch? She's going to dump on you bigtime, man. "And if she was, she wouldn't choose a cop, would she?"

"Well she's crazy," Trisha said firmly. She smiled. "Perhaps you should date another cop instead. You could marry another cop." The perfect solution.

"Trish, I don't want to get married again."

"Sure you do, honey. Just like David does. Only you both don't know it yet."

Hutch laughed. There was a long quiet time. Then he said, "We'd better go and face it."

It was all quiet now in ICU. The ventilator was gone, Starsky had got more of his face back. Just the cardiogram, a nasal canula and the drips now. But still the laboured breathing. A nurse now in constant attendance, sitting by his shoulder.

"He's breathing alone," she said quietly. "We're reducing the sedative drugs, but he may not regain consciousness for a while."

"He's hot," commented Trisha, moving in close to Starsky's other side. She stroked the wet hair back from his forehead, once, twice, three times, then ran her palm down his cheek. "Davey, you're burning up. Why is he so hot?"

"Infections," said the nurse. "Septicaemia -- blood poisoning. We're doing what we can."

Hutch kept his eyes on the cardiogram. It was quivering, not steady. He saw the nurse glance at it. She adjusted one of the lines, opened a valve and injected in another load of anti-pyretics. Starsky's arm jumped. He seemed to go stiff from the neck down. Hutch could have sworn that his eyes opened. A sharp crack of energy seemed to rattle through him.

"David?" Trisha said wildly, even as the nurse had hit the red button. The quivering peaks of the cardiogram faltered and then flatlined. Hutch stepped backwards to let the crash team past him. He could hear the paddles whining, and Trisha saying "David?". No breathing, no heartbeat. He was jumping ship. Someone shouted "Clear!" and they heard the deep thump of the electricity, the soft thump of Starsky landing back on the bed. Not enough. Still the flat line. Hutch moved forward again, caught hold of Trisha's arm, dragged her back as they began compressions.

"We should have kept him on the respirator!" she wailed, but even now, as Starsky went whirling away towards the light Hutch did not agree. They went up to 250 volts. Nothing. Then 300. Hutch could not see Starsky's head, just one arm tensed on the bed. So tense. Shouldn't it be relaxed, if life was racing out of it? He was fighting them. He was trying to get out. But they were too good. Three hundred and fifty did it. A massive crack and then the cardiogram jumped into a little pointy skyline, then into a rhythm.

"He's back," someone said. Hutch heard his own breathing, Trisha gasping and then turning feebly away and being sick. Starsky's arm tensed and relaxed, tensed again and then relaxed, giving in, crawling back. The laboured breathing had begun again. Without a doubt he made a sound, a faint, choked-off, frustrated sound. No-one but Hutch seemed to register. They had called for Sinclair. Jane Dickens had helped Trisha out by then, and Hutch was alone at the back of the room while the two doctors of the crash team and the other nurse -- her name was Eileen; she was Irish and acted like no-one in the world mattered except Starsky -- assessed the damage.

One of the lines was dislodged from the force. The other had been pulled half out of Starsky's arm. There was blood and fluid dripping on to the sheet. Eileen was working fast. Hutch watched her swift movements, cleaning the wounds meticulously, fresh gloves for each one, peeling them off as she finished, getting some more, sliding the needle back in, the plastic lifeline, taping them down tenderly. Then placing the mask over Starsky's mouth and nose to give him some help. Wiping away the beaded sweat. All the while Sinclair was bent low over his patient with his stethoscope.

The tingling was back. The tightness in his own chest, the feeling that he could not take even one more breath. Panic attack. God, not now. Not helpful. He closed his eyes a minute, trying to focus on his breaths, trying to keep them quiet, trying to imagine Starsky's coaxing voice steadying him through it.

"Are you alright, Detective Hutchinson?"

It was Sinclair, next to him. How much time had past?

Cold, sweaty, out of sync. "I .... I'm fine. Thank you. Where are we at?"

"A quite violent reaction," Sinclair said musingly. "I'm sorry his mother had to be here for that. You too."

"Will it happen again?"

"I can't say. Anyway, he came back. Remarkable. But I'm very concerned about the fever and the infection. I want to x-ray the chest."

"What, take him to the x-ray department?"

"No, we don't have to do that, thank goodness. No, we'll bring the x-ray department here."

"What do you think?"

"I'm not sure. Well, that is ... well, I'll tell you if I'm right."

By that evening they knew he was right.

"He has pneumonia in both lungs," Hutch told Clementine on the phone. He had just stopped off at Starsky's apartment on Ridgeway. Nick was out, the apartment was in chaos. Hutch, depressed, just stood in the middle.

"He what? How come? Oh Hutch, that's so unfair." It was six in the morning in London, but she had called him, not able to sleep. "Can they treat it?"

"Well it's just drugs, more and more drugs. I swear he's had enough, but they're so good in the ICU, they're keeping him hanging on. This guy Sinclair seems to feel it's a mission. The nurses are the same."

"I'm with them," said Clem. "Aren't you?"

Hutch could not bring himself to tell her what he thought, what he felt Starsky was going through. So he said, "Of course." Meanwhile there was the apartment. Starsky was pretty tidy, he imposed a certain order on his belongings and he made intermittent efforts to clean in a relaxed, bachelor sort of way. Nick had reduced the place to a hell of unwashed, piled crockery, abandoned clothes, discarded newspapers, CDs out of cases, furniture moved, water in puddles, beer bottles, cigarette ash and rubbish. Just in two or so days. Even to Hutch's chaotic style this was painful, and oddly disrespectful. But he knew, if he did anything to sort it out, Nick would be angry, and Nicky Starsky angry was not something Hutch wanted right now. So he left it, regretful, annoyed.

~~~

Starsky did not respond to the drug treatment. He remained in crisis, crushed by a delirium they could not control. During the day it sank a little, and he sank accordingly, into a near-comatose state beyond unconscious. As night fell the fever clawed back. A weird kind of routine had established with Hutch and the Starskys. Trisha was in a state of fear and depression that could only be alleviated by sleep, so she stayed at the hospital with Nick during the day and then crashed into oblivion overnight while Hutch covered the nightshift. He had given up going into work, although he responded to Jay Dean's request for him to come down when they brought in the latino teenager who had used the knife, finally apprehended after another botched hold-up at a fishing store down on the docks. Apprehended in possession of a bag full of knives.

Sullen, unrepentant, the nineteen year-old would not give up his cousin Raul and faced up to both Jason Dean and Hutch.

"Is this the youth responsible for the attack on Detective Starsky?" asked Detective Bestic from the Pacific East precinct who had gone into La Cuenca.

"That's him," said Jay. Hutch nodded mutely.

Bestic swung into the routine, wondering to himself if this was the same Hutchinson who rode in that weird red and white car. "Jorge Tenesta, you are hereby charged with wounding a police officer, attempted armed robbery and resisting arrest."

The teenager just stared at them.

"If Detective Starsky doesn't make it," Jay Dean said angrily, "You are going down for murder one. Nothing to say to that?"

"Jay," said Hutch evenly. "Read him his rights."

That night, lonely in the room in ICU, Hutch told Starsky. It was like all the nights that week, a helpless watch while Starsky, unwillingly, battled. They pumped fluid and penicillin and anti-pyretics into him and it seemed to pour back out of him all night while his sick lungs stretched and strained. The heartrate remained relatively stable, cantering slightly sometimes in response to unknown stresses. He had not come near to regaining consciousness.

"You know, buddy," Hutch said to him, almost delirious himself with fatigue and tension, when the clock was crawling towards four in the morning, Thursday into Friday, a week on. Four am. Hutch knew it was the hour at which the highest proportion of deaths occurred. Whenever it came around he always had a sense that the nursing staff were just that little bit more alert, carrying out observations more frequently than ever. "You know you don't have to keep going if you don't want to." His voice sounded clear and decisive in the dim room. "If you want out, that's OK. I don't want you to leave." He stopped. His throat had just clogged up. There were tears and he could hardly draw a breath. It had taken a week to get to it and now the damn things were dripping, unchecked, down his face, plopping on to his knees. "I don't want you to. But ... if you can't do this anymore .... Shit. Let me know at least, will you, Starsk? Because I feel like you want to go."

Knowing the vibration of the damn machines so well, he realized that it had started its tiny gallop again. Brushing a sleeve across his face he half glanced towards the glass to see if the nurses were on their way, but then his heart began to hammer as if it was trying to escape from his chest.

"Hutch."

The voice was small, clipped. There was hardly any breath to push it out, but nevertheless it was wonderful in its clarity. Hutch moved his eyes around. Starsky still had his eyes shut, but there was a flicker of the lashes, tiny and brave.

"I'm here, buddy. Right here." He got hold of the cold-tipped fingers nearest him and pressed them with his own warm ones.

It seemed to take a massive effort, brutal and wearing, but somehow Starsky managed to lift his lids. Hutch searched the eyes that were before him, the sign of life not yet relinquished. They were full of fever, hurting eyes, but they were his own, not those of a man overcome.

"Hey," said Hutch gently. "You're here." He patted the icy fingers. Starsky tried to speak but it was too much. Hutch shook his head at him. "Just can it for now will you, Starsk, shush." Starsky swallowed, moved his head, closed his eyes, opened them again. "You know what I was saying, don't you, bud?" Hutch pressed on.

A nod. More effort to speak, but there was no breath.

"Well you're here now, guess that answers my question." A dissenting squeeze on his hand. Dissenting? Or agreeing? Again Hutch searched the familiar eyes. He felt like he was getting the message again. Their mind meld was years old. "I can see you're hurting, Starsk. The doctors here are willing you on like you wouldn't believe. The nurses. Your Mom, Nicky. And Clem. The guys. Goddamnit even that weird old man who lives next door to you ... and me too. We've been trying to drag you back ... but I can see it's costing. I think I know the answer, but give me a sign will you? DNR?"

Those eyes were watching him, long. A sigh interrupted the crushing breaths. He kept putting a little pressure on Hutch's hand. It spoke volumes. Hutch sat there until the fever took big hold again, until Starsky drifted away into the hard place once more, when his hand went limp. But still the breaths went in and out, trying to find a way, and his brain bubbled with the heat of the infection.

Nothing changed. The battle went on, although Hutch knew, he knew deep down that his partner was tired of fighting. On Sunday afternoon he drove to BCI to pick up Clem from her London flight. He parked in the terminal lot and went in to meet her right off the plane. The flight was half an hour late but she only had hand luggage -- her kit was being brought back by the company. Standing behind the barrier Hutch saw her come through next to a group of teenage Londoners in a high state of excitement. She was small and slight, strong-looking with unmistakeable steely limbs, her dark bob all messed up from the journey. She wore cut-off track pants and a sleeveless hoodie, her bag slung on her back. It was so great to see her. What a contrast she was to all the women Starsky had ever dated in the past. Quick-witted, sharp-tongued, extrovert and independent. They should be together, Hutch was convinced of it, even though they would drive each other crazy. Clem practically jumped into his arms. He staggered, realizing how weak and strung out he was.

The traffic coming back from BCI was slow-moving. So they sat drifting along Franklin Boulevard, Clem talking about the tour constantly, making sure Hutch knew that Sergey was indeed only her first-choice dancing partner, and friend, but nothing more. Again Hutch would not be drawn. He wondered if she was protesting too much, but then again he was in a particularly pessimistic frame of mind. They went straight to Memorial. Trisha was at Starsky's sleeping, and Nicky was supposed to be in ICU. Hutch was not surprised to find him absent. He showed Clem into the pale, dim room and went to back out but found that she had grabbed his sleeve and was holding on to it with a vicelike grip. She was shaking, because she had already seen what was there, the array of technology and human endurance on display, the wracked face, the intermittent murmuring. Clem pulled Hutch forward with her, although almost unaware of him.

At the bedside she let go. Her expressive face was working, taking in the reality. The cheerfulness of the journey back from BCI evaporated. Limply she took hold of the nearest hand.

"Cold," she said, surprised. "Honey are you cold?" She shook her head. "No, you're not. Shoot, you're hot. You're so damn hot ...Hutch, he's burning up, can't they stop it? Look at him!"

"I know," said Hutch, so weary. "It never seems to go away."

"He's saying something," said Clem. "Can you hear?"

Starsky's lips were moving slightly, there was a faint sound. "This is new," said Hutch. He leant down but the sound seemed more like a rasping breath than words.

"David, can you hear me?" Clem asked. "Can he hear me?"

"I'm not sure," said Hutch non-committally although he was pretty sure that Starsky could hear him. "Listen, Clem, I'm going to go get a cup of coffee or something. Talk to him -- warm up that hand." He slipped out.

He took Clem home later, back to the apartment in Hampton she shared with two other company members. He did not go in for a drink. She seemed exhausted, tearful.

 

It was Wednesday when Dr. Sinclair said they were at the transition phase. Nicky had been at the hospital when things started to change and, terrified, he summoned Trisha and Hutch right away -- they had been picking at a takeaway at Hutch's.

"Transition?" said Trisha, remembering the term from her two labors when it had been seen as hard but wonderful.

They were in the family room, where they knew recently bereaved relatives were taken, all three of them, Trisha looking wild, Hutch crushed and Nicky like he wanted to bolt.

"Transition," Sinclair confirmed. "It's a term we use to describe the ... final stage of a chronic delirium. We might see sudden incongruous strength from a patient at this stage .. maybe speech and open eyes .... Sometimes attempts to get up and walk. It signals the brain's cutting loose, if you like, going for broke. Release or recovery." He had not thought they would ever reach this. "I think he needs you all with him."

"Oh jeez," said Nicky in his spectacularly unguarded way, "this is the fucking deathbed scene, I can't do that."

Trisha held her hand out to him, but Hutch just stared at the floor.

"Honey, you gotta," said Trisha in her persuasive way, as if she were trying to get him to go to work in the morning. She glanced at Hutch to help her but he remained staring stonily at the scratched linoleum.

"Shit," said Nicky, "Shit, shit, this is shit."

"Isn't it though," Hutch said. He headed out of the family room, past Dr. Sinclair, down the corridor, so familiar now that he felt he had become institutionalized, and in the doors to that grim, shadowy place.

Starsky's condition had changed for sure. There was Eileen hanging on to one of his hands, the other with a wet, green hospital cloth clamped to his forehead. It was not clear if she was mopping his brow or holding him down. She was murmuring sweet nothings of encouragement to him. Jane Dickens was on the other side attaching a new bottle of fluid. There was a strange voice in the room. Somebody new.

Hiding said the voice. It was fierce and cracked, dried out and desperate.

Hutch swallowed several times, getting rid of the tightness. He had learned some great new techniques for anxiety this past nine days.

Gotta get out said the voice. Eileen motioned to Hutch to take over from her. As he slipped to Starsky's side and took a grip on his hand he saw Trisha come in, Nicky behind her, face ashen with fear. The hold Starsky got on him was a shock. He caught hold like a drowning man, but one with the strength to pull his rescuer down with him.

"Whoa," said Hutch, "Alright, alright, I'm here. You got me."

Get me out said the voice.

Jane had finished her job and moved aside to let Trisha in on Starsky's other side.

"Here's your Mom, David, try and relax now." Trisha sought her boy's other hand.

"It's OK, honey, I'm here. Try and calm down now. Shush, baby, sshhh."

Nicky stood rooted to the end of the bed with one hand across his lower jaw. Eileen wiped the brow again. Jane spoke soothingly.

Starsky did want to get off the bed. They could only stop him with Nicky's help, and Hutch noticed how the younger brother's expression opened up suddenly, like a ray of light had got in, and he saw underneath the face for the first time.

"Lay back, Davey," he said, much louder and more aggressive than the nurses or Trisha. "You can't get up, bro. Stay laying down, we'll help you. You got Mom and your buddy here, Davey. Hutch is right here. You hang on to him, but you gotta quieten down."

"We're right outside if you need us," Eileen said in Hutch's ear. She pulled the clear oxygen mask up next to his arm. "You may want this."

"Listen to me, Davey, quieten down, will you, this ain't helping." Suddenly Nicky sounded so like David. Trisha bent low over the hand she held, not able to speak now. She heard Nicky sounding like Davey, and this harsh other voice talking back to him. She did not ever remember hearing Nicky take control before. She could not look up at Davey's face, but sat there hearing everything he was saying.

_Nicky, let me out. Dad's locked me in. Get the key will you. There's no light in here. Nicky, I don't like it in here. Dad might come home. I'm scared, Nick. Can you hear me? Nicky. Nick. Nick, let me out. Please, Nick._

And pushing, pushing against the door in the pitch black.

"Easy, Starsk, easy does it. It's OK. Hold on, but ease up there, buddy." Hutch's voice was the bassline under the insistent top notes of his partner. Nicky stood and listened to the pleas, his face crumpled. He remembered it all. He remembered hearing it as he crept out the back door. He remembered passing his father in uniform, staggering with whiskey, coming the other way and his frisson of terror at what might happen. He remembered breaking into a run, to get away.

_Did you hear me, Nick? Where were you? It was too dark, that's why I shouted. I thought you were there. Dad came back. Dad came back. Did you know, Nick? Were you there? Don't tell Mom, Nicky._

"It's all over, buddy, you're not there now. Hold my hand. You're not there."

Oh god, what is that? Get it out, get it out of me. Dad's real mad tonight, Nick, I think I did something. I musta done something. Hutch will help me. Where are you, Hutch? Did you hear me?

"I hear you, buddy. I'll help you."

The scene played over again a few times more. A mix of past and present. Other scenes. Much confusion, mumbling, the names of people none of them knew. There was some restless thrashing about during which Nick kept his hand clamped down on his brother's chest, looking fearfully over at Hutch from time to time to get validation for what he was doing. Hutch nodded at him, his hand locked in Starsky's. Then there were periods of straight fighting for breath with no words, during which they all three thought he was taking his last gasps of life, and then the harsh speech came back, roving over insignificance as well as hard life.

_Dad's mad tonight. Stay close to Mom, Nick. Look after Mom, Nick._

"I will!" Nick shouted out at him. "I do! Tell him, Mom!"

But Trisha could not speak.

_This is hard, Hutch. Too hard. I could go, Hutch, gotta go, Hutch. Nick, can you get me out of here? Dad's home. Mad again._

Drifting away. A dark place with a hill, steep on one side and easy the other, like an optical illusion. The hill had been there all the time but now it was becoming clearer. It was time to get over it. Not stop on the summit this time and turn back. Over the hill and head towards the good place. Never mind Nick. Never mind Dad. He was what he was. He didn't kill me. But that knife has. Gotta get over the hill. Hutch will understand.

_Help me, Hutch, help me._

"I'm trying, buddy, I'm trying."

Quiet now. Suddenly much quieter. Trisha kneading his hand between her own, I love you, I love you, honey. _Is that Hutch there? God I hope so. Where did Nicky go?_

Hutch reached for the oxygen mask. Starsky still had his left hand tightly in his own. The grip had not lessened, but he was struggling for air again now. Hard and harsh. Agonizing. Each breath a shudder.

All the time he breathed down Starsky kept hold of Hutch's hand. He was coming over the hill now. The breaths got longer and slower. Hard still, but longer and slower. Nearly there. Hutch became aware of a new rhythm. Going up softer, coming down quieter. The harsh breaths were gone. It sounded like breathing now, not grasping. Still the hand gripped. He was not going. He had come over the hill and it was easier down the other side. Hutch felt it.

Trisha did not know, not yet. She thought her son was almost gone, disappeared over the brow of that hard, pitiless hill. Nicky mis-read it too.

"It's alright," Hutch said, keeping the mask there.

Trisha looked up. "David?"

"He's breathing quiet," Hutch said. "Look. He's quiet. Nick, go get the nurses." He stayed in position, mask in place, hand in place, while Eileen and Jane did the obs they thought they wouldn't need. The heart monitor bumped raggedly on, but the raggedness was regular.

"Temperature down a few points," Eileen said, taking the ear thermometer and showing it to Jane,who glanced quickly, keenly at Trisha and Hutch. "David, can you hear me?"

"He still has my hand," Hutch said, marveling. "I mean, he's never stopped gripping it. He still has it." He moved his own hand and felt Starsky respond. "He knows I'm here."

Sinclair had come in. Hutch tried to move aside but Starsky would not let go. The doctor waved him back in place.

"Pressure's good. Temperature down a shade. Pupils reactive. Cardiac arrhythmia still present. David, you're doing so great, keep going." He glanced at Hutch. "Keep hold."

"He won't let me go."

The quieter breathing went on. It did not fade away, and when Trisha realized this, she looked up again, starting to believe. She looked over at Hutch. He nodded. He looked down at Nick, who was clear now too.

"Doc, are we in business here?" he said. It was David again -- his voice, the childish optimism, but coming from Nick.

"We may be," Sinclair said. Hutch noticed for the first time that he had a thin sheen of sweat on his cultured upper lip. "Stay right where you are, Ken, and Mrs Starsky. Let's see if David can keep this going."

"Of course he can keep it going," Eileen said unexpectedly. She was at Hutch's elbow. "We're going to make sure of it."


	3. Chapter 3

Starsky knew he had woken up before a few times, but then it had been to a dreamlike vision of the nurses moving slowly round him like fish swimming in a deep blue tank, all shadows and reflections in a muffled underworld. This time the noises were different, although the bluish light was the same. His eyes traveled down to his feet. All was white. He could feel the canula in the inside of his elbow. He was dry and felt as if he had flu. His chest hurt when he breathed in. There was a memory skirting around but he would not let it in for now.

"Honey?" said a voice. He saw his mother sitting by him. That was because he was in bed with the flu, presumably. She smiled quaveringly at him. Her manner seemed odd to him, but he smiled at her although it took a while for his muscles to respond. She said all kinds of things but somehow he could not find the strength to answer. He tried to reply with his eyes, to be kind to her because she seemed so worried, but he hardly felt present at the scene. The memory at the edges threatened to become clearer so he closed his eyes and almost immediately fell asleep again.

Next time it was the nurses. He felt as if he should know them. They were changing the bed, moving him with infinite gentleness and skill, giving him sips of water. Still the chest pain and the encroaching memory. It was not so easy to sleep again, it seemed like he had a mighty hangover.

"You're coming off the sedatives, David," said the Irish nurse. She knew him? "You're going cold turkey, my sweetheart. It'll get better soon."

Should he ask? "Where?"

Eileen laughed. "Poor boy," she said. "You're in Memorial, in the ICU, you've been very sick but we hope we've got you back now. You've been here nearly two weeks. Remember?"

"My side," said Starsky in a voice he did not recognize.

"Bless you, sweetheart. You were badly injured, you've had lots of problems. It'll be hard for a while. My name's Eileen, I'm on duty this evening. You need to rest now. Maybe later you can try and sit up -- see how the pain is. I've just given you something for that, it'll kick in soon."

"Hot," said Starsky.

"Mmmm, I know. You're still running a fever, poor boy. Try and sleep now."

"Tuesday," he said.

"What did you say?" someone replied.

Starsky opened his eyes. "Is it Tuesday yet?"

A low laugh. "Ah no, buddy, it's Sunday."

There was a morning feel about the room this time. Not so blue. Not so white. He had a blanket on. The canula was still there, and the pain in his chest, but the hangover seemed gone.

"Hutch?"

When he looked to his right he saw the real Hutch sitting in a chair, leaning slightly towards him. He was in a weekend shirt, no jacket. The Trib and a cup of coffee were on a table next to him. He looked wasted, weary, baggy-eyed.

Starsky felt a stab of concern for him. "Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself," said Hutch, the strain on his face creasing into a feeble smile of relief. "How are you feeling?"

"You tell me," Starsky said.

"Don't try and talk too much," Hutch said, pulling his chair in closer. "That's doctor's orders. You know where you are, right?"

Starsky looked round the room, making a face. "Seems clear."

"You're still in intensive care, buddy, but they moved you somewhere quieter. They won't take you off the critical list yet."

"No kidding?" Starsky seemed impressed with that.

"We nearly lost you, Starsk." The break in Hutch's voice was not lost on Starsky but he could not quite respond to it.

"Dreaming," he murmured. He sounded very tired. "The car."

"We brought you in the car -- me and Jay. You remember?"

"They got it out."

"They did. And we found the guy -- a kid. He's looking at five to ten."

"Bad dreams."

Hutch nodded. "I know, buddy, you've had a tough time but it's over now. You just need to get plenty of rest and kick that fever. They won't take you to a proper room until it's gone."

"Fever?"

"Yeah, you're a proper invalid. Eileen will be in soon, to see her beloved David. She'll be on my case for tiring you out."

"You are very tiring."

Hutch gave a grateful laugh. "Yeah, well you're not allowed other visitors just yet. They're queueing up out there, but you're stuck with me right now."

"Good."

"Can't face it, huh, buddy?"

Starsky shut his eyes a second and shook his head. The tangle of reality and delirium was still not sorting itself out. Starsky knew Hutch had been part of it all, somehow, but he did not want to see anyone else who didn't know. Sinclair had already explained to them that Starsky would need time to adjust. Hutch knew all about cops and post traumatic stress. Starsky's fingers curled towards him. Hutch took up his hand and squeezed it tenderly.

"It's OK. Just take it easy. You've got a way to go. They have to get you mobile and eating -- might be another week the doc says. You've been pumped so full of drugs, you're a regular junkie."

Starsky just nodded. He seemed exhausted. Hutch was saying something else but his partner fell asleep mid-sentence, like a kitten overcome by play. It happened a lot over the next few days, days in which he tried to pick up from the wakeful, feverish nights. Trisha came a lot, sometimes with Nicky in tow, although he still found it hard to contribute. Hutch was back at work but Dobey was generous with his hours. A mass of cards and flowers had built up at Memorial, once they knew the biggest danger was past. Hutch brought in messages which Starsky listened to in silence. Clem came in and made him laugh, but anything like that seemed to trigger the clinging fever again.

"So much for us being perfect for one another," she said gloomily when Hutch drove her home. "I swear I've just made him worse, Hutch."

"No, it just seems like that. He's a long way from recovery -- Sinclair said so just this morning. They're going to try some different antibiotics, see if they can beef up his immunity."

"Does it seem to you like we'll never get him back?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you think he'll resign?" Well, it would be Clem to ask that.

"More likely he'll be forced to retire," Hutch said.

"Really?"

"I don't know. I don't know how it'll be. It's hard to imagine, but cops have cracked up for less than a two week near-death experience."

"David won't crack up. You won't let him."

"Maybe he won't pass the fitness tests -- they'll be hard on him, you know."

"Oh god, don't. Let's not think about it."

"You brought it up."

"Well I'm un-bringing it up now, OK?"

"OK."

It took a few more days before Starsky got on to it himself. Hutch had dropped in after work, bringing some car magazines and a tape of the Lakers last game which Starsky had missed when he had fallen asleep while Hutch and Nick were settled in their hospital chairs under his TV. The meal orderlies were just taking out tonight's food -- soup again - which Hutch was still amazed to see Starsky had hardly touched, and he could see when he came in that the evening fever was just starting to kick in. Starsky's eyes had that hard, bright look, he was leaning back on his plumped pillows. He smiled, though, when Hutch came in.

"Pictures of cars," Hutch said cheerfully, dumping the magazines on the bed.

"Thank you. Pictures I can do."

"And here's the Lakers' tape -- really, Starsk, it's worth staying awake for."

"I'll do my best."

"How you doing?"

"Oh, you know."

"Yes, I can see." Hutch smiled more encouragement. "Same old same old, huh?"

"The longer this goes on, Hutch, the less likely I am to get back behind the wheel," Starsky said. This long sentence seemed to tire him out.

"Says who?"

"Well. Me."

"Look, Starsk, Sinclair has been pretty straight. It's going to be a long road and you're not going to get better all at once. You're still real sick. It's too soon to be speculating about your future in the force. Who cares about that? Just sweat it out, buddy. I just want to see you standing up with a quarterpounder stuffed in your face. Not lying there like some character in the opera. You want some water?"

Starsky nodded, sighed. "Well I ain't going to resign," he said.

"Who asked you to?" said Hutch, pouring from the big jug and handing it over.

"Stop being so sensible will you?" Starsky growled. "Let me do some self pity."

Hutch laughed out loud. "Drink your water," he said. "The psychs aren't coming anywhere near you for weeks yet. Yeah, I know what you're thinking."

"Shit, Hutch, once they get hold of me. It'll be mandatory … and then they'll get completely on my case, there'll be that whole thing … that father thing."

"Starsky, you're just down because you're sick, buddy. Forget the psychs, will you? Besides, they probably want me just as much -- who wants a cop whose mother never loved him, huh?"

Starsky drained the water. "You gotta date?"

"No, Anna's out with the girls."

"Ouch."

"I had a pretty lousy day really," Hutch mused, helping himself to the untouched black grapes on the table. "Two hours in court, four hours writing reports, no hours eating lunch, then three hours hanging round on a bum stakeout on Washington. Didn't even get to go home." He paused. "Being freelance sucks. Do you know, there are some guys that drive worse than you."

"Yeah, but not in a car as great as mine." Starsky found his eyes drooping shut. Hutch watched him for a second, then shook his head.

"There you go," he said. "I better leave you to sleep, huh?"

Starsky's eyes drifted open again. "Oh crap," he said. "I'm sorry. Can't help it."

"Hey, I won't take it personally." He tutted. "Gordo," he said, "You still look really terrible. How's the chest?"

"Feel like I'm breathing in iron filings," said Starsky.

"The dreams?"

"Oh, they come and go. Don't tell psychs."

"Starsky, will you forget psychs?"

"How can I? I feel like I'm going crazy." He glanced up at Hutch's reaction. Hutch looked thoughtful, enigmatic, concerned, but he did not move his face. He just locked eyes with his partner.

"Well you're not," he said eventually. "You may be raving and drugged out of your brain, but you're definitely not crazy." He motioned up at the TV. "Why don't you watch the tape? See if you can get beyond the first timeout tonight. I'll test you on it tomorrow."

"Really."

"Yeah, I'm going home. You need to rest." He clapped Starsky lightly on the cheek. It was hot. The brightness in the eyes was more marked. "Hang in there, buddy."

"Seeya," Starsky said. He inhaled his iron filings, closed his eyes against the sparks and knew time was about to start playing tricks on him again. Hutch felt despondent as he left. In the elevator he met Sinclair who had a really smart suit on.

"Dr Sinclair," he said at once. "Tell me how things are, how they really are."

Sinclair was used to Hutch by now. He understood he was up-front, fearless and a fiercely intelligent man and he understood the relationship with his patient. He would still gloss over things with Trisha and Nick Starsky, but he would not with Detective Hutchinson.

"You've been visiting?"

"Yes -- he doesn't seem to be getting any better."

The elevator swished evenly down to the basement where they both got out and stood in the corridor. Sinclair had his car in the staff car lot; Hutch was just following him.

"It really isn't a simple case of recovery," he said. "David survived his injuries against the odds and now he has survived double pneumonia against the odds. His whole system is too shattered to cope with the infections -- his immunity is shot to pieces and so his bloodstream gets constantly flooded with the bacteria - the drugs we give him can help but they can't seem to knock it out at the moment. It's a very delicate time, which is why he is still in ICU and monitored round the clock. We can't expect him to begin any meaningful convalescence yet. In fact we are more likely to see a relapse. None of this is surprising in medical terms, but I know it's a hard road."

"A relapse?" said Hutch in disgust.

"Baby steps," Sinclair said, hoiking his suit jacket off and putting it over his arm. "One baby step forward may see several back. What is it in particular that's concerning you, Detective?"

Hutch rubbed his eyes. "The fever, the bad dreams, the pain."

"Yes, it's very worrying."

"You're worried?"

"You think I don't worry about my seriously ill patients? Believe me, I would love to see David picking up strength, sleeping, maintaining normal temperature, but I am not surprised that he can't. I'm afraid we're in it for the long haul -- he knows that, I told him today."

"And the long term? I mean the really long term?"

"Ah, well that is harder to assess. I wouldn't bet against him getting back to work as before, although I couldn't say when that would be. Equally, I would expect him to always be susceptible to chest infections, maybe develop some respiratory weakness. But he has bounding good health in the past on his side -- and a proven stamina."

"Not much stamina now," said Hutch.

"Yes, he is very down. That's quite normal for someone in his position." He gave his sudden and rare bright smile. "David needs all the encouragement he can get right now. There is a huge psychological element in all of this. It`s very hard for patients not to get depressed when they are in a constant never-never land."

"He'll be pleased to know that," Hutch said.

"Yes, well it will be one battle at a time. I think we can worry about his state of mind when we can get him physically well. Frankly I'm just glad we have these problems to worry about. Does that kid have any idea how very close he was to homicide?"

"That kid doesn't have any idea about anything much," admitted Hutch.

They shook hands in the corridor. They both wondered about each other's job.

And Sinclair was right again.

Dobey was patched through to the squadcar in which Detective Somers was driving with Hutch on routine patrol two afternoons later. "Hutch, Memorial are looking for you. They want you to go down check out your partner straightaway. I don't know why, don't ask me."

"Damnit," said Hutch, shutting his eyes and screwing up his face as if struck by a sudden, unbearable pain.

Somers swung the car round straight away. "This is some bad scene, man," he commented, glancing sideways at the fair, statuesque profile, locked in tension.

Hutch found Starsky gone from his room and his instincts took him up the familiar corridor of ICU. Jane Dickens saw him coming and waved him into the unit silently.

Trisha was sitting by the bed again, hand held in her son's. His bed was angled so he was almost sitting upright, lost once more behind the oxygen mask where Eileen stood sentinel.

"He had another bad night," Eileen said to Hutch, "and then he began having breathing difficulties so we brought him back along here. There's effusion - some fluid on the lungs." She pointed to a catheter now running straight into Starsky's right side. "We're draining it off."

"Fluid? What does that mean?"

"It means we're not as far forward as we hoped."

Hutch came to stand by Trisha. She gave him her other hand and he squeezed it.

"Oh honey, he's so sick," she said quietly.

"Is he sedated?" Hutch asked Eileen.

"Only very lightly."

Hutch leaned forward towards Starsky, and put his cool palm on the side of the colourless face. "Come on, buddy, you can pull through this." He kept his hand there, watching the unfamiliar, familiar person laying there. It was devastating to have talked to him only a few hours before, the real Starsk, and how here he was again, trying not to die. Or maybe he was trying to die.

There were more bad nights. Tension at the precinct ratcheted up again. "Dave Starsky is still in critical condition," Dobey reported to a stony-faced squadroom, full of all the characters from around the building with whom, it had emerged, Starsky had a connection. "He's fighting for his life again."

"If he doesn't make it, Cap ..." It was Jack Bavin and all eyes turned to him. "Will the kid be protected by Juvenile?"

"If David Starsky doesn't make it then that kid is going down," Dobey said shortly. "And so is the guy who sold him the weapon. In the meantime, everybody, cut Hutch a bit of slack .. and don't give up on the guy yet."

It was all blurred and repetitive to Starsky, in his half-unconscious state, but he knew he did not want to stay in the unit, with its clanking metal machines on wheels and the strange bluey-white light. He was worried about his Mom, she sobbed so much while she was sitting there, and Hutch was struggling. Gotta jump one way or the other, Starsky thought. But which way? So easy to give in. Just a small sigh, a relaxation, and he felt he could sink out of this world forever, and not have to do this shit anymore, give everyone a break. Nicky would come through for Mom. He would, he would. Hutch would crumble, but he'd come though too in the end. Maybe there was a good career ahead for him teamed up with Jack Bavin. He could marry Annaliese, have kids, go back to college like he secretly wanted. Clem might be sad, regretting what they couldn't fix, but she was flying, she would get off on her talent, find a likeminded life-partner, take the stages of Europe by storm. Or else .... he could not give in. Not relax. He could carry on with this fighting, this battling, fix his mind on the goal of getting all these goddamned tubes out of him, out of his arm, his chest, his nose, and getting back in a normal bed. If he didn't have the tubes, then he wouldn't hurt. And if he could just stop dreaming these harsh dreams. He wanted the coloured blanket again, not these cold sheets covering his scars. He wanted a sunny day on his skin and somewhere to sit with a cold beer. He wanted Hutch to stop wearing that look that said I'm scared as hell but I'm toughing it out, and for his Mom to screech one of her laughs so they all covered their ears. He wanted Nicky to call him my pig brother with that wicked grin on his face and for Clem to say shit instead of shoot by accident and then cover her mouth. Shit, David, I've got you a ticket and you're coming to see me. Saturday night, and to the party after. And then there was that Dodgers ticket. He knew enough to know Tuesday was well past.

He woke to an empty room. For a while he just stared round it from his place in what he could tell was a fairly normal bed. It was a different room. The blanket was beige. There were flowers, and he had not been allowed flowers before. Too likely to cause an allergy. No abnormal noises. No ticking, no beeping. No tubes. Ah yes, just one tube, still the one in his elbow. But really. No iron filings. For the first time. Starsky lay there breathing in and out experimentally. He dare not breathe really deep, but he decided he had to. Like he was on a mountain top, just to see how the air was. It filled his lungs, making him feel dizzy, and then rushed out because he was too weak to hold it, but definitely no iron, just a faint ache. No flu either. There was no thirst, no hunger. For a second he thought he must be dead, but then he realized he was too tired to be dead.

Suppose he was to get up? That would be a thing. He pushed up carefully from the bed. It felt like he was suspended over an abyss. He had just moved one knee to try and angle it out of the bed, his head was buzzing and his heart had started to wallop painfully when the door of the room opened.

"And just what are you doing?"

It was Nurse Dickens. She swept into the room and got across to him before he toppled sideways out of the bed.

"Hey, Jane," said Starsky. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Not on my watch," she said, nevertheless hunting for a basin and plumping it next to him. "What do you think you're up to? We're a ways from going walkabout, let me tell you. Stay still there. I have stuff to do in here. Still feeling nauseous?"

"Maybe."

"OK. Not a problem. Let me tell you what's what. You listening?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"It's Saturday afternoon. You've been back in the unit in a terrible state for three and a half days, but we brought you here last night when the doctors confirmed that your lungs were clear again. The infection seems to be back under control, you slept a proper sleep overnight and you've had all drugs except the painkillers withdrawn. How's that?"

"And if you withdrew those?"

"You'd feel like a horse had kicked you."

"Right."

"We do want to get you out of bed, but it has to be done in stages. First we sit you up a bit, then a bit more, then we hang around on the side of the bed, then we take a step or two. That's going to take up the rest of the afternoon. Sprinting can resume tomorrow maybe."

"I've gone off the idea."

"Sure you have. Well I have a few messages for you. Hutch says he'll be in in the morning, he has something to go to tonight. Your Mom is coming by later today."

"And when am I going home?"

She stopped and looked at him. "That's a good question, David. Let's say … well, not this week."

"And how long since they wheeled my sorry ass in here?"

"Three weeks yesterday your buddies brought you into the ER."

"And how am I doing?"

"Today you're doing lovely. Tomorrow we can't say. Any more questions?"

Starsky shook his head. Jane Dickens smiled at him. "Good, you lay quiet and if you're no trouble I'll be back in ten minutes or so to sit you up. Do you need anything? Nausea any worse?" He shook his head again and she tutted humorously. "You know, your partner says you normally never shut up."

"Really."

"Really." She produced the eartherm as if doing a magic trick. "Hmm, up a few points, but nothing like as bad as you have been."

He watched as she swept out and then he lay there and thought about three weeks yesterday. It was the first time he had cornered enough conscious free time to do it. He had said something to Jay, hadn't he, when he saw it coming? What happened then … it was fuzzy. What had he said? He must have warned him, or Jay would surely have taken it instead. There was a filmic quality to the scene in his head. He remembered the rain pulsing down, and the car ride, although not the arrival here. Somewhere in the car it all got lost. He recalled fighting with Hutch to get at the knife. He could hear Hutch's voice, entreating him to hang on, and he did not even know how to hang on, he felt as if some force was pulling him through the floor of the car. As he felt again the sensation of the metal inside him a cold little wave broke over his shoulders and seemed to travel all the way down to his feet. He could hear his own voice saying oh god oh god oh god Hutch and he remembered so clearly why -- it was the realization that his own blood was pumping out of him with every heartbeat, the realization that a long-bladed knife held in the hands of a teenager was going to kill him. Starsky was still convinced it would kill him. He may be breathing again, lying here with a rational head, weeks now since they somehow got it out, but the imprint of the blade was still in there, would always be, until such time as it killed him.

Hutch came in next morning and found Starsky sitting by the bed in a chair. He was still attached to a mobile drip and an oxygen tank and mask was at his elbow, but he was sitting up properly, with no pillows.

"Well look at you," Hutch said admiringly. Inside, his stomach lurched to see the grimly pale, shadowy features, all the more stark when not framed by the disguise of the white bed. Starsky evidently knew what he was thinking.

"I guess I look as bad as I feel."

Hutch came and perched on the bed. "What they say?"

"They say things can only get better."

"Right."

Starsky smiled wanly, wanting to comfort him. "Oh don't look so worried. It's not so bad. I walked to the john earlier on."

"Really."

"Yup. And I ate some sloppy stuff, some clear soup, that kind of shit."

"And what's that for?" Hutch motioned at the tank and mask.

"Emergencies. It's OK, I don't think I have to walk round with one forever. Where would it go in the car? Not between us."

"The backseat maybe," Hutch hazarded. "But you don't need it right now?"

"Nope. I think it's just my mobile ICU. My lung is shot to pieces, Sinclair said so, so what can I do? Anyway, never mind that." He sounded suddenly impatient. "Tell me what's going on, anything not to do with this place."

"Where to start?" wondered Hutch. "Dobey gave up his diet."

"Again?"

"Well I think it was a new one."

"And who are you working with?"

"Somers sometimes. Bavin sometimes."

"Jack Bavin, what a treat. Does he still hate me?"

"Well he seems to find you a little obnoxious, what can I tell you? We wrapped up a couple of cases and then there's a pile of others that can wait until you get back."

Starsky skipped over this. "How's Annaliese?"

"Busy. Gorgeous. Flirting with some guy from the DA's office. She'd love to come and see you, so she says."

"Oh, I shall grant her an audience, sooner or later."

"Is Clem around?"

"Off to New York next week, with some Russian guy."

"You know, this Sergey is just her partner - her dance partner."

"Yeah really."

"No she told me. They rehearse together a lot, and they hang out talking about the steps and that kinda stuff."

"Well it doesn't matter anyway. The split is final."

"She says?"

"She says, I says."

Hutch looked gloomy, and then remembered he was supposed to be the cheery one. "Look, you gotta tell me what you want me to bring in, Starsk. You're gonna be here for a while, might as well do our best to make it bearable."

"Well, you could bring my laptop. My Gameboy. And some games. Some music. Hey, yeah, my tennis racket and I'd kind of like to see my car."

Hutch snickered. Bavin always moaned how Starsky had to resort to humor when things were supposed to be serious. "OK, I get the picture. And what about the queue of visitors? I feel like your social secretary - everyone comes to me to make an appointment."

"Well unfortunately the doc seems to think I should keep laying low."

"Oh?"

"They're worried about someone bringing me in a fat little bacterium on my grapes." Hutch stared down at himself.

"You, Mom and Nicky are clean, apparently, or at least I don't seem to mind your germs - Clem's OK as long as she doesn't jump around too much, but she always does."

"Man, that's tough."

"Maybe."

"You're right. Perhaps you ought to have a longer break before Huggy comes in here fresh out of the Pits."

"How the hell is Huggy?"

"He's busy," said Hutch. "Being a bar manager. Bavin won't go near him and Huggy thinks he's a jerk so there we go. Hug rings me for an update on you twice a day. Listen, I saw Nick earlier. Said he's going back to New York tomorrow."

"Yeah, he's had enough. He's going to lose his job if he doesn't get his butt back home, and in any case he's doctored out."

"And your Mom?"

"She'll be here until I'm given a clean bill of health or else carried out of here with my toes turned up. The school have given her compassionate leave, but she doesn't care anyhow, you know how she is. I'm going to be looked after to death." Starsky glanced at the door and then at the clock on the wall. "Eileen, or Jane, or someone, are going to be in in a minute to make me go lie down again. Can you believe it?"

"Buddy, looking at you, I can believe it."

In another two weeks the first new visitors were allowed. The room at Memorial became a drop-in centre, the recovering Starsky a magnet to the precinct. It was a new experience for them - fatalities were not uncommon, but clawing back from the prognosis they all knew Dave Starsky had been given most certainly was and he was seemingly designated the status of some kind of holy grail. Hutch just held his breath. He knew, because Sinclair had told him, that they could still lose him from here. He understood, the way Starsky himself did, the way that psychs almost certainly did, that you didn't get that near to being stabbed to death without the result leaving a hold on you, leaving you on the edge of a cliff over which it could pick you up and drop you, suddenly, at will. This was true even as Starsky finally began to look more like himself, even when he eventually re-established his fond relationship with food, even when he could at last take a walk outside and breathe in the smoggy, sunny air of downtown. Sinclair let Hutch and Trisha take him for a day trip to the beach shortly after that. He was not allowed beach games but sat behind his dark glasses and let the sun seep into him. Two months in hospital clocked up.

Then Dobey was there for the all-important meeting. He had been in long negotiations with Ron Chapman, the union rep, as well as Chief Ryan, Deputy McMichaels, Dr Sinclair and someone from psychs. Hutch had been kept out of all these preliminaries and he and Starsky had speculated much about what was in store. Instead of going into the precinct one Monday morning, Hutch went straight to Memorial and found Dobey already having coffee in Starsky's room.

"Hutchinson," he said when Hutch entered.

"Captain," said Hutch, feeling like he should stand to attention. Starsky, dressed, was sitting on the side of his bed with a Styrofoam cup in his lap. He looked anxious, an unusual look for him.

"Sit down, let's get started."

Hutch lowered his limbs into the chair, tangling a quick glance with his partner.

"OK," said Dobey, waving a sheaf of papers at them. "This is the first of a series of meetings we're going to have. This is just to let you know where we're at. It's a standard procedure for all long-term medical cases."

"Long-term medical cases?" echoed Starsky.

"Yes, you know perfectly well you won't be back at work next week. We don't yet know when you will be back. That's why we have to have these meetings." Dobey sounded incredibly bad-tempered. They both knew it was tension.

"Hum," said Starsky. "Go on, then, Cap."

"Dr Sinclair thinks you may be out of this place pretty soon." Hutch gave Starsky a congratulatory face. "But you will be at home convalescing for … let's say, a while. Dr Sinclair wants to assess on a rolling basis. He has you down for six weeks at home before your first major check-up. If that went well, and with the agreement of psychiatric services - don't look at me like that, Dave - then we would set a preliminary date for phased-in return to work. If Sinclair feels you need more time, then you get that and we go for a second preliminary date."

"OK," said Hutch, "so say we get to the check-up and Starsk is still not quite there … so Sinclair says another month … another check-up -"

"With the agreement, in there, of psych-"

"Yeah, we got that, Cap. Psychs are in there. So another check-up. Suppose he's not quite ready then, what's the scenario?"

Dobey scratched his moustache and Starsky looked at the ceiling. "That's when we would need to discuss ….."

"Medical retirement," Starsky said.

"Yes, but we're hoping not to get to that. Sinclair is hoping we won't need to look at it."

"What's the cut-off time?" Hutch said. "Because we know that's what you guys have been negotiating."

"Six months," Dobey said. "From the time of the incident."

They looked at each other. "Where are we now?" Starsky muttered.

"Two months, just over," Dobey said, shuffling the papers. "You should know, Dave, that Chapman was going for six months from now."

"But?"

"The Chief and McMichaels couldn't go for it."

"Of course they couldn't," said Hutch.

"And just how do psychs fit into all this?" Starsky demanded in a surprisingly robust voice.

Dobey's eyebrow went up. "They confer with Sinclair at the time of your assessment."

"Just confer?"

"OK, you have a session with them and a session with Sinclair and then they confer." Another paper shuffle. "Psychs have to be in the loop all the way through."

"I can't refuse to see them?"

"No, not without previously agreed sick time being withdrawn, with the result that the Chief will take you permanently off roster and start negotiating your retirement deal. That's the way it is."

Starsky gave a distracted nod and then immediately went on to his next tack. "So what happens to Hutch during all this time I'm sat on my ass?"

"Well, for a start, buddy, you won't be sat on your ass," Hutch interrupted before Dobey could reply. "You'll be out there getting fit, doing what the doctor says."

Starsky sent a baleful look his way and then concentrated on Dobey again. Dobey kept his face serious, neutral, but he was delighted that Starsky was being so scratchy. It meant he had not given up. "Hutch will be re-assigned," he said. "It's not yet decided with whom. There may be a secondment on offer over in Narcotics. We have to have a separate meeting about all that, when we know what time-frame we're looking at. For now, you're with Somers."

"Beautiful," said Hutch. Somers was a nice guy, but he had to be nannied. Hutch never felt like his back was covered. He would trust a half-fit Starsky with his life over any guy in the precinct.

"So that's the way it is," Dobey concluded. "Any questions?"

"Can I appeal any of the medical or psych results? Get a second opinion?"

Dobey attempted not to smile. It was an incredible relief to him that Dave Starsky was prepared to worry this like a bone; he had feared he would shrug and let things happen. "You can try," he said. "But I can tell you, Chief Ryan will block it."

"He'd rather throw money at Starsky to make him go away?" asked Hutch. Not a nod, not a blink. Just a stare.

"I suggest we don't go there just now," Dobey said calmly. "At the moment you're still in here."

Four days later he was back in his apartment having requested a rather secretive departure from the hospital to pre-empt any attempts to throw a welcome home party. Trisha had stocked the place full to bursting. She installed herself on the couch that became a bed and the oxygen tank was wheeled into a dark corner and disguised with a jacket and hat. Between now and the six-week assessment he was obliged to take plenty of bed rest, gentle walking as exercise, preferably away from roads, a program of physical therapy, consume stamina-building foods and avoid stress and excitement.

"Avoid excitement?" he said when Sinclair had listed this requirement as he and Hutch left Memorial carrying the remains of the books and discs that had accumulated of late. "What, like no ball games on the tv? No mouse-racing at Huggy Bear's? And doesn't being driven home in Hutch's car count as stress?"

Sinclair let him go on. "Be sensible, David," he said. "Don't put yourself through anything un-necessary, that's all. You could be back in here in a twinkle if you crash back into life." Hutch made a face. It was hard to imagine Starsky doing anything with life other than crashing into it. "As your doctor, I expect you to play a part in taking care of yourself. Your Mom and Hutch here will do the rest."

"This is going to be awful," said Starsky when they got into Hutch's car. "Starting right here." He tried to find a comfortable position but couldn't.

Hutch laughed. "I'm looking forward to it - just think, we can tell you to shut up whenever we like."

For maybe three weeks Starsky was grateful for the quiet life that Trisha insisted on. It became clear that he needed to sleep, in his own time, in his own bed. And, come to that, on the couch, in chairs and in the bath. All of a sudden there seemed to be no limit to his fatigue. Up late, a slow stroll up to Third Street for breakfast, a rest on the couch with the papers, lunch and then more sleep, backgammon with Trisha or chess with Hutch on his days off, a bit of TV, some phone calls, dinner, a book and then hours more sleep. Life had never been like this before. He got into the routine quickly, without a struggle, but it seemed otherworldly to him. He commented to Hutch that he really felt like he had been put on pause back there in the canal basin at that moment he had said Jay, a blade, and he was still there. The physical therapy started, short sessions that left him wanting to weep at his own weakness and the deep, unrelenting pain that it left behind. Hutch came with him to every session, not anticipating how gruelling it would be to see his friend dragging himself through the exercises, throwing up afterwards, clinging to him for the strength to compose himself again before Hutch delivered him back to Trisha. Before him loomed the six-week assessment.

"Don't get stressed about it," Hutch advised. He was highly stressed himself. He was frustrated at not being with Starsky all the time, but almost unable to bear what he was going through in his recovery. For two weeks he had worked with Somers and after that Jack Bavin, Starsky's nemesis, who, even in the light of his near-fatal wounding was unable to stay very complimentary about Hutch's partner for long. Bavin was a good cop, reliable, smart, rock-solid, but the constant barbing about other cops, and Starsky in particular, wore Hutch down. He did not mention any of this to Starsky whose blood-pressure frequently went through the roof concerning Jack Bavin.

The assessment was in three parts. The precinct medic, Stephanie Bukowitz, put him through a light training session in the gym which left him light-headed; and then he went straight up to psychs, room 582, which was home to the free counselling service and which creaked and groaned under the pressure of failing marriages, alcohol, depression and post-traumatic stress. Except for the annual mandatory session neither Starsky nor Hutch had ever requested an appointment and they had never been inside the room.

"You expected a torture chamber?" the main psychiatric services counselor observed when Starsky came in and stared around. "David Starsky, right? Detective Sergeant first class, on long-term sick leave." He was a gimlet-eyed, spare man who managed to look relaxed while his six-foot something frame sat bolt upright in a hard chair. Next to him a woman counselor smiled briefly.

"This is your six-week assessment?" she asked. There was a fat file on the desk in front of the psychs guy, and an empty sheet of paper in front of her. Dry-mouthed, Starsky nodded.

"Sit down, Detective, and don't look so freaked. All we do is talk. No hypnotism, no funny mind-games, no Oedipus or Freud."

They talked, asking lots of questions. Why he joined the force. Had he ever been injured before. Had he lost many colleagues during his time. Did he have coping mechanisms for the dangers of the job. Exactly what happened that day. They concentrated on small aspects of the episode - the realisation he had been seriously hurt, his memory of what Jay and Hutch had said to him in the car, what he had understood about his treatment, what he remembered about the first two weeks in the hospital. How he thought Hutch was dealing with it.

"Hutch? He's doing fine."

"I'm sure you're right," said the woman. They had seen Jason Dean frequently since the event, but that was confidential. They had expected Hutchinson, knowing about the relationship. Dobey had said to them that he was edgy.

"It can be hard," said psychs guy. "To be present at an event such as this, to see your partner - your close friend - take such a hit. Your memory is all episodic, patchy. He will have a much longer-running scenario in his mind, with everything connecting."

They watched Detective Starsky thinking hard about this. His last mandatory session had yielded up observations that he was confident without being arrogant, droll in the face of personal peril, and apparently aware that his superiors considered him a little reckless on occasion. Hutchinson's sessions always generated comments about his sensitivity to the heavy end of police work, which was why they had been expecting him. They knew he took half-inderal for panic attacks. They knew he had problems with alcohol as a college student. But no Hutch.

"I'm not sure you should use Starsky to get his partner in here," the psychs guy had said to his colleague before today's session. "This is his time. He may be in a bad way."

She was unrepentant. "Needs must," she said. "If Detective Starsky is struggling then we will deal with that over time. Come on, Richard, it's all part of the same thing. If this guy gets back to work anytime, he won't be needing a partner who's been left to slide. We know these guys have this protective thing - it may work."

When Hutch rang him to see how it went, Starsky, who, it was noted, had left the session more nervous than when he entered, was laidback. "It was fine, fine. You were right. Nothing to worry out. They were OK. No father stuff, just concentrating on …. Well, what you'd think. I take back what I said."

Hutch thought about this on his end of the line. "So you don't think they're going to screw you?"

Starsky suspected that they probably were. He wondered how the woman counselor didn't get cramps in her hand she did so much scribbling, and the psychs guy, whose name he could not even remember, had had this narrowed-eyed thing going on. They wanted him back and he manifestly did not want to go, but he was not in a position to refuse. Hutch, on the other hand, could make a choice, given the right encouragement. "I don't think so. Hey, I quite enjoyed it."

"Yeah, right, don't give me that."

"OK, I didn't enjoy it but it was OK."

"OK is one thing, Starsk. Question is, did it help?"

Starsky hesitated. "It got me thinking straight," he said, willing his voice to come out light at the other end. "I'm cool to go back."

"Well good," said Hutch. "Listen, I'll catch you later. Take it easy."

"Man I can't do anything else."

Seeing Sinclair at Memorial constituted the last leg of the assessment. Hutch took him in the Torino and was gratified that Sinclair said he could sit in. He had not seen the scars before. They were shocking, made him feel a queasy combination of anger and terror and it brought back to him what that kid had taken from his friend. Chunks of his being, never to be replaced. Sinclair said they were healing well and the shark-chewing effect would continue to wear off.

"It will always be impressive," he said, as Starsky shrugged his t-shirt back on. "So, David, tell me. Sleeping?"

"Through the night," said Starsky.

"Dreams?"

"Not so much."

"But still?"

"Say, one night in seven. Five maybe."

"Pain?"

"Only when I laugh."

"The gym tests were good. Very good even." Sinclair waved a folder at him. "You want to read?" Starsky shook his head. Sinclair offered them to Hutch. He had abandoned protocol with these two weeks ago. Hutch snapped it up eagerly and read it while Sinclair did blood pressure, temperature, respiratory function. When he looked up again Starsky was blowing up a green balloon through a metal tube while red lights flashed on a console.

"Tough?" Sinclair asked.

"Not so easy."

"It's a similar reading we'd see in an asthmatic," the doctor observed. "But, as usual, better than I would have predicted at this stage. Room for improvement."

Starsky pointed at the other file on the desk. "Psychs?"

"Indeed." Sinclair did not pick it up. He was not likely to give that one to Hutch, or even to Starsky. "They want you back."

"And you? Come on, Doc, level with us. Are you going to give me a preliminary return date?"

Sinclair regarded him thoughtfully. "I could on the basis of your physical tests, David, no problem. Everything is looking good. I'm sure lung capacity will get better, although as I've repeatedly told you there could be permanent effects, whether you get back to work or not. Psychiatric services don't recommend preliminary return."

Starsky took a breath. "What, over a few lousy nightmares?"

"It's not insignificant."

"Oh come on! It's not going to stop me getting through a day on the streets."

"I can't ignore it."

"Oh crap, I knew it! I knew it would be fucking psychs that would bury me."

"Stay calm," advised Sinclair mildly, "or I'll have to take your obs again." He glanced at Hutch. "I am obliged to take their recommendations into account. I support their wish to see you for some further sessions. I also want to re-do your respiratory function tests on a weekly basis so I can record incremental improvement. Without these two things, there's no going back on the street. I will let your Captain know that I want you to have another month. A training regime is being designed for you, so you'll be coming in to the precinct, and you'll be seeing psychiatric services weekly. We will all do another assessment to see you if we can set that date."

"No pressure then," muttered Starsky sourly.

"Plenty of pressure," Sinclair said. "My advice now? Would be to push yourself a bit. I think it's normal to hold off after you've been through the things you have - but it's make or break time. See what causes pain, breathlessness. Let psychs do their worst, see how it affects you. Basically, David, you have my permission to live your life again. Frankly it could be risky, but it's the only way."

Constantly watching his partner push himself to the limit sent Hutch into a tailspin. After another week at home Starsky attempted to despatch Trisha back to New York. She immediately rang Hutch.

"He says he's fine, Ken, he says he'll be back at work anytime now and I have to go. Is he fine?"

Hutch, strung out by another week sitting next to Jack Bavin, felt the grumblings of irritation over the whole affair.

"Trisha, I'm not a goddamned doctor."

Trisha, a bit like her older son, passed over the bad temper as if it had never happened. "Yes, but you know."

Hutch rubbed his eyes. "I think he maybe needs you to go home now."

A wounded silence on the end of the line. Goddamnit. "Really?"

"Really. Sinclair wants him to try things out on his own."

"That's not possible," Trisha said. "I mean, I can go home, sure I can. But he can't do this on his own. He has to have you."

And there, that was it. Hutch knew it, knew it as well as he knew anything in this world. He so wanted to go away for a while, take a long vacation, with Anna, or even maybe on his own, empty his mind of all this shit, let Starsky sink or swim, not feel guilty, not feel responsible. It was crap to feel like this. Starsk wasn't even leaning on him. He was going for it with as little help as possible, but Hutch could not lose his fear. He saw this annoying, amazing, brave guy he loved teetering on the edge of this precipice and he had the overwhelming feeling that he was going to go over. He had had the feeling since ICU, since their silent communication.

"He's got me, Trish," Hutch said blankly.

"So you think it's OK for me to go?"

Hutch took a few more seconds and then gathered everything he had momentarily let slide and plumped it back on his shoulders once again. "I think it's OK, Trish. I'm on his case."

"Oh honey, if it wasn't for you there wouldn't be a case."

Not sure of that, Hutch thought. I was in charge that day. Taking the lead. I got them both to be so damned careful that they weren't ready. I wasn't ready. We didn't see it coming and we should have done. Starsky and me should have done. We're the experienced ones. I should have done. I was taking the lead. I should have seen it. When these familiar thoughts stopped teeming around his brain he felt an urge to go and get a beer. For a second he hesitated with the next decision and then made it and took a diazepam.

While Jack Bavin muttered and wondered about the wisdom of it, Starsky came into Metro and began to do sessions in the gym. It gave him the creeps to see Bavin and Hutch sat together in the squadroom, working together quietly, so he didn't go there. He did corner Jay Dean down in the cafeteria and bought him a coffee.

"How's Hutch doing, Jay?"

Jay Dean could hardly credit seeing Dave Starsky upright on his feet, walking and talking, making faces about the coffee, his face split in the familiar huge smile whenever someone new acknowledged his presence with delight.

"Hutch?"

"Uh-huh. You know, my partner. You may have seen him. Six foot. Blond. Kinda dopey-looking."

"Well, he's doing OK."

"Think he's alright with Bavin?"

Jay made a face. "Listen, man, no-one likes to work with Bavin. But Hutch seems to be able to do it. They've had a pretty impressive arrest rate. Not sure your buddy's enjoying it though."

"Listen, Jay, do me a favor will you?"

"Anything, man."

"Keep an eye on him will you? I'm kinda keeping busy with all this recovery shit, and I need to know he's alright."

"Well, sure, Dave, but like how?"

Starsky considered him. He was young, after all, not yet wised-up to some stuff. But he was sharp. He liked Hutch. He was a good cop. "I think Hutch is being a little hard on himself. Think he feels bad about what happened. Probably needs some panic pills."

"Hutch?" said Jay.

Starsky smiled a little. "We all have our weak spots." He looked nervously across the cafeteria then. "He'd be pretty pissed if he knew I was saying this to you."

"Listen, man," Jay said. "I was there, remember. I was driving, but Hutch was sitting there with you bleeding all over him."

Starsky thought for a second. Then he said, "Have you been to psychs?"

"Sure," said Jay. "Why not? Hasn't Hutch?"

Starsky shook his head. "Nope. He's toughing it out."

"And you?"

"Sure, I'm never outa there," Starsky said gloomily.

"It's OK," Jay said. "I mean, they're OK. Not too heavy. It's been good to talk it out. They seem to know stuff." He cleared his throat and Starsky grinned at him a little wanly. They certainly did. Starsky always left there feeling like he'd been through a wringer.

The final assessment was in Dobey's office. It was coming up for five months since the incident that everyone at Metro described simply as "La Cuenca". A full house. Dobey, leading the meeting. Dr Sinclair, serious as ever. The guy from psychs, whose name, even now, kept escaping Starsky. Hutch, ready to be the rock if the bad news came. Starsky, suspicious, his confidence in a small puddle, in the most comfortable chair. There were few preliminaries from Dobey. He already knew the outcome. It was just a formality now.

The psychs guy addressed mostly Dobey, but he did not have much to say. He had absolutely no qualms about passing Detective Starsky fit for a return to work. He did not even recommend mandatory counselling - just advised a regular session, but entirely at Starsky's discretion. Discretion? thought Starsky, giving Hutch a look that said he was close to breaking out in near-hysterical laughter. Since when have I had any discretion? But OK, I can play ball with these looney-tunes guys as long as they're not forcing me. When his turn came, Sinclair did much more talking. He addressed nearly all his comments directly to his patient, for which Starsky was grateful, occasionally bringing in Hutch with a glance. He went over the medical history from the moment Starsky had been taken into the ER, and hearing it all again made Hutch want to puke. Whatever Sinclair was going to say, he knew Starsky was still on the precipice, and he understood now that he would be there always. The physical results were good, Sinclair went on, maybe not as good as he had hoped, but still impressive given the circumstances. Starsky had passed all Berkowitz's tests, and, he pointed out, even the fittest of officers did not always do that. There was not much doubt about his continued ability to function as a police officer, to uphold the standards expected, to operate in the manner specified by his department, and needed by his partner. His was a remarkable recovery. But .... Starsky had been waiting for the but as soon as Sinclair had opened his mouth, although Hutch, jogging along in all the hopeful prose, was shocked by it. Some of the damage was never going to go away. He was missing a piece of lung. His immunity could be described as weak. There would likely be a liftetime of susceptibility to certain infections which could prove dangerous if not fatal. A lifetime too of dependency on certain medication. These were facts that could not be put aside, and, he realised, would have a strong effect on the decision that the Chief of Police would make. His own recommendation, like the guy from psychs, was that Starsky could go back on the streets. He held up the sheet of A4 addressed to the Chief with the words "Passed fit for return to work." on it. Smiling, he waved it a bit, like a flag. Neither Starsky or Hutchinson spoke. They just looked at each other.

Later that afternoon word came from the Chief. Dobey leaned out of his office and bellowed. "Starsky! Get yourself and your partner in here!" He slammed the door behind them as they came in, shutting out the squadroom who were pretending they were not all trying to listen in.

Dobey looked at them standing there, shoulders touching. His best boys. They looked totally strung out, both of them.

"OK then," he said gruffly.

"OK then?" echoed Hutch, swivelling his gaze between the Captain and his partner.

"The Chief will go for it," said Dobey.

Starsky continued to stand, frozen.

"Yes, he uh ... was not completely happy. Worried about some of things Sinclair said. But he'll go for it. Your return date has been set for Monday two weeks away. Half days only."

Hutch did not say a word. He took three steps across Dobey's office, stuck out his hand to grip the Captain's, then turned to Starsky who was still rooted to his spot. In the corridor, privately, after the first meeting, Sinclair had said to Hutch that it all came down to him, to stand guard on the precipice. "It doesn't appear in the report or recommendations," he said. "But your role is key, Detective. You understand all this, I know. You are the eyes and ears on how things are. Your care and support is over-arching. He cannot do this without you." Hutch had nodded, half gratified, half despondent. "But, you need to take care of yourself too. Get your own house in order, as we say in England. Take up the services that are offered, that's all. I'm going to remain David's physician. I shall be interested to hear how things go." That rare smile, lightening the mood a little. Then they had shaken hands in mutual respect and liking.

In Dobey's office, taking hold of Starsky's shoulders and giving them a little shake Hutch said, "See? See? I told you so." Then he pulled Starsky into his chest with a crunch, saying something very quietly in his ear that Dobey could not hear. Starsky, coming out of his pose, clung on to him for a second.

"Until then!" Dobey snapped, making them both jump. "You are both on vacation. I want you both out of here. I am sick of the sight of you. I am sick of the sight of your reports. So ... beat it."

"Cap," said Hutch weakly, hanging on to Starsky's arm as they staggered for the door. "We're beaten." Dobey just waited to hear the door bang shut, listened out for the sound of whooping and cheering in the squadroom, and then lowered himself into his chair with shaky legs.

****************************************************

Warm, fuggy Bay City weather, a slight breeze, dry, the smell of heat coming off the sidewalk. Hutch, tanned from the islands, sweating it out in the gym first thing and getting to work smothered in good health, but checking his pocket like he does over and over for the half-inderal. Starsky, thin as a rake, arriving late at Metro with a Danish in his mouth like a dog with a bone, rattling with pain-killers and with a stack of ventolin inhalers in a bag which he shoves in a drawer. Dobey grumpy with indigestion and pressure from Deputy McMichaels. A pile of reports sitting on the desk and slow-burning chaos in the corridor and squadroom.

A day like any other. Just a regular day, but never ordinary again.


End file.
